Police Come Round

Before the taxi had even
properly come to a stop,
she had opened the door
and was half stepping out.
“What the hell has happened?”
she asked a small group of people
loitering outside where her
garden gate had been broken off.
The downstairs windows
were all caved in,
the front door hanging on
haphazardly by its top hinge only.
And there was a trail of blood
dragged up the garden path
towards the pavement.
“Police come round!”
someone answered
“Oh.” she replied,
almost to herself.
Then walked two doors down
to Mary at No. 58
to ask to use the phone
to contact the Council.
They were going to bloody love
this carry on, up here, again see.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.