Practised fingers slide,
Between the steel sprung jaw,
And mark a journey's end.
The slap on the cold tile floor,
Echoes 'round the house,
But no one moves.
A draught slips easily,
Beneath the heavy door,
And as bare feet stand,
The five intruders lie,
Fanned, 'poker-style',
With no eyes to give away the truth.
A glossed and gaudy postcard,
Filled with empty lines,
A promise of unsought riches,
And two brown, windowed bills,
Highlight a small, white,
Crisp cornered envelope.
Five parallel lines,
Placed dead centre,
In a neatly sloping hand,
Betrayed its innocence,
And it lies unopened,
Behind the clock.
