Behind Closed Doors.

Streets of small houses shut out All but dim bulbs behind blinds Every night flickering screens Seem to pattern thin curtains With wavering luminous lines. What lives, loves and hates erupt Behind doors of sanitised wood? Are they using dull evenings For talking, weeping, maybe In laughter, or weaving more Fanciful dreams understood To be acceptable scenes Of hidden domestic bliss? More likely is seems, barring Adventures for girls and boys, Who, bowed down over table, Vying with family noise, Scratch sweaty answers, but miss Out on lost childhood meanwhile. Upstairs, preening, are sisters Who dream of soon leaving To tan in the sun before, Their young life done, they re-style Into wives, cleaning the house The same as their Mums, taking Life uncomplainingly, but Aching with unfulfilled hopes. Their unthinking men, choking On smoke, drinking and mating With lads at the Pub., closing Their doors to any warm love As they stumble back home, and Fumbling in bed, they begin The whole sad saga again. Closed doors of habit won't move Unless they are given a shove.