My Dear Miss Hannah

‘Excuse the mess’, her voice trickled through, as I walked into the room.

Piles and piles of dirty plates and cups -all stacked up, like a junkyard shop.

Tables, chairs -covered with, torn-ripped letters, unseen.

Drying cobwebbed-covered plants -takes centre-stage as I glance.

‘Please take a seat’ -she motions me -to a couch strewn with thick dust sheets.

Should I sit -or best to stand? Is it safe to settle down?

I perch, ill-stricken, I force a smile, ‘my dear Miss Hannah -what an honour’.

Suspiciously she glares at me ‘now what do you want of me?’

I shift, a little, an awkward pose ‘shall we start to throw these out?’

Miss Hannah looks at the brimming box ‘oh no…I’ll do that later on’.

A sigh seeps though, my patience wanes ‘you said that only yesterday’.

Begrudgingly she agrees, gets a bin bag for our cleaning spree.

We clear one box, a most-rewarding task, together we find the tipping grounds.

My Miss Hannah is very proud, she thanks me and then says out-loud.

‘Oops my skirt is very loose, I’ve lost weight -it’s falling down.’

A worried gasp escapes my lips ‘Oh Miss Hannah, you must eat.’

She waves her hand dismissively ‘my dear young child -stop your fear’.

My time is up, I have to dash, I worry if she’ll be safe tonight.

My Miss Hannah waves at me, ‘I’ll see you next week at three.’

~ Copyright ©yikici 2013

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