There is a barney going on inside next door,
He, a baritone-boom, she, a screech-witch:
“What have you done with my bloody trousers,
You stupid, careless bitch?”
“Don’t call me a bitch, you useless lazy cretin.
I’m not your skivvy, not the keeper of his majesty’s kecks.
I’m not the little woman you seem to want around,
Not here just for cooking, cleaning and sex.”
“Where are my sodding trousers?” Volume pumped up.
“Go to hell,” screeched she, then a door slam, BANG,
He let’s out an “aaaarrrrgggghhhh” and then silence,
Except for a singing bird perched on their roof’s overhang.
Later, they are out together gardening, as I walk to the car.
They nod and say a cheery hello in unison, smiles wide and unawkward,
He doing the edges, she pottering in the central feature,
She wearing a fleece jacket and he fully trousered.
The bird, mission accomplished, had flown.