You can’t be here.
You can’t be here.
You have to go.
You have to go now
before she wakes up.
Lucy. Stop. Lucy.
You can’t be here.
They are foraging in the fridge,
drinking milk straight from the bottle,
biting into blocks of cheese,
laughing,
comfortable,
nothing not theirs.
You already know Jan and Mindy.
That’s Kenny and Joel. He’s Mark.
I tear Marla’s tea cosy from a boy’s head.
Go home.
Lucy, she’ll be so confused if she wakes up.
Please. Please.
Lucy stands soldier straight,
salutes.
Right, troops. Be cool.
Don’t act like savages.
And to me:
We’ll be good. I promise.
A kiss to the tip of my nose.
They are quieter.
Sneaking.
But they are not good.
They move to the sitting room,
lie on her sofa,
loll on her chairs,
poke fun at her photos.
They help themselves to booze,
splosh it on her carpet.
They find trinkets and pocket them.
Put that back.
That isn’t yours.
But behind me I know something else
is being taken,
perhaps something that means more.
Upstairs nothing stirs.
Marla sleeps.
She dreams through it all.
And it is a consolation.