The floorboards are creaking,
As the mouse beneath, squeaking, is crawling,
Only to croak,
Removing a plank,
I look into its dull left eye,
I pick it up,
Thinking of only how much it stunk

A body was found in the bath,
It was a mother, used to the laugh and the cry,
But no scornful laugh,
And no terrified cry,
Was heard by anyone,
Or maybe simply too averted to say,
Playing the most meaningless of games.

Finding company amongst those who starve and bleed,
Where a few pounds more are all they need to make it through,
But through to where?
And how bad's the need?
For we, the detached,
What should we care?
What REAL use for the emotional trek?