Is Dead.

[dadio]

Is dead.
That’s the part
you heard,
those words
through the gap
between door
and frame.

Who’s dead?
or what?
the dog?
Uncle, Auntie,
Grandfather?
The old biddy next door
whose nose
spied through curtains?

Curiosity
like some virus
bit into you,
and your ears
lingered by the gap,
your eyes peered
at the adults talking,
lip reading unsuccessfully.

You torn
between the call
of nature (to piss)
and the needing
to know unfolding
of who had died.

Shame,
he was much loved,
the voices continued,
the ears flapping
for further news,
standing on tiptoe,
the bladder filling
to busting.

The King is dead,
long live the Queen,
Grandmother said,
circa 1952,
and you giving in
to nature’s call,
walked off satisfied
along the dark hall.

[saw]

yes, yes, the fly on the wall memories of a small kid that had to know ( like all kids).....you've really hit on something in my mind dadio....these are powerful stories.....your other poetry, though highly imaginative did not have the voice presented here......we all have these great stories in us that demonstrate both our differences and our similarities in ways that fiction often cannot capture on a sustained basis.....well done

[dadio]

Thank you, Saw. Yes, these are different poems from a more personal angle.