The Test

When I get in, you're interviewing psychopaths
in the kitchen, perched on a bar stool
opposite one, while another waits his turn
by the fridge, drumming manicured nails
against the door.

After a brief hello, I retire to the lounge
and watch you nervously from the edge
of the sofa, crossing and re-crossing
my legs.

What the hell are you doing?

Suddenly, I spot another one by the telly
slowly turning a paperweight over
and over in huge hands, as if it was
an interesting pebble.

I can hear you talking, slowly
and deliberately, with false cheerfulness:

Now do you think you can make a bit of an effort to be good? All this serial killing's a bit silly, isn't it?

Course we can, mate they answer in unison.
You don't seem to detect the sarcasm in their tone.

It's the final straw.


I reach you in one clear movement
and hiss in your ear:
What on earth is going on?

You put your arm around me and laugh.
The psychopaths are quiet, eyes gazing
steadily at us both from their various positions.

Now listen, love.
you say, addressing the room
These lads have offered to do a bit of DIY whilst we're asleep. Don't make a fuss - it's all in hand.

I stomp off to bed in a huff.
When you get in, I turn away and pretend
to be asleep but I'm wide awake, listening out
for suspicious noises.

In the morning, you've already gone.
Someone's fixed the shelving and
the hallway's freshly painted.

I find them in the kitchen
rinsing tea towels
filing their nails
and putting a huge pie in the freezer.

What a relief.