I can see him through the half-open blinds
(do not think he can see me)
and he is ageing, bearded, flustered, pensive.
The bonnet of his red car is pushed up, a nearby garage door
left open. The slams of things and rumbles of faults
in the engine are muted, as all my windows are closed.
(There have been people out there at night,
wandering around and peering in-
so the neighbours say, confirming my suspicions).
In here, my ironing board is folded out
and used as a desk, the floor is scattered
with oil pastels, and two pink lady apples shine
from the folds of my canvas book bag.
The man outside now stands at the bonnet, looking in,
scratching the back f his neck. He put his hands in his pockets
and drops his chin to his chest, retreats into the garage,
disappearing eventually into dark. I am alone again.