There goes Mr Jones again,
walking past my window pane.
He ambles by, most every day at three
as silently I plead, “don’t just walk by me.”
Please stop momentarily
and pop in for some tea.
Just knock on my door
and let your brogues grace my floor,
but off he trots, in such a rush
and I am left in solemn hush.

I stare through my lace prison,
waiting ’til my cakes have risen
to place them on a table set for one,
another day come and gone,
without knowledge of a real human voice;
my aged limbs leave me no choice.

I wait in hope of a letter,
an invitation to something better;
a visit from a goodly-meaning Christian
or phone call from the seafood salesman
(although I draw the line
at some freaky cultish whine!)
But tupperware or double glazed doors;
I don’t care; I know my choice is poor.

You can talk to me of frightful places
and hollow worn-out faces,
while I drink in your tear-streams
of a thousand unreached dreams;
and fill me with sad tales in doleful moan
(believe me, they’re no worse than I already own.)
And I promise I will take it all for free
but please, oh please, I beg thee…

…please just TALK TO ME!