In the morning she eats garlic,
A bowl of them, boiled in a mixture.
Then medicine, then some kind of a
Breakfast. She stares into the blank
Of a day. Everything the same.
She does her usual things: clean,
Sweep, exercise, sometimes she reads.
I do not know what she does in the day,
Only the setting sun tells me of the lights
She doesn’t leave on, because “electrical bills”.

He says she spoiled the fridge, the kettle,
Even the tv doesn’t make a sound anymore.

She’s like a child. She whines, laughs,
Tells me off. She observes, dismisses.
She is the dying tip of an autumn leaf.
My silence is the autumn wind.
Cold, but not cold enough.

I do not know of the things she does in the day.
What does she do when the food is cooking in the pan?
Or when it rains and she rushes to save the laundry.
Only the chattering and muttering
From her creased mouth,
(the neighbours, groceries, the tv)
Tells me that she speaks only to herself.

She switches the tv on
before she leaves the house.
She sleeps before 9 pm.

She leaves in June, and I don’t know what she does in the day.