TED by Bruce Hodder

At dawn, Ted rides his rusty bicycle
down Kesey Walk. He's going off to work
in his hi-viz trousers with his lanyard swinging.
I don't know what it is he does.


Last night, as usual, we had the Elvis show.
For hours, Presley bellowed through the windows
from Ted's flat, as he sat outside
getting slowly drunk. There was an argument,
Ted following his wife upstairs, both shouting.
A door slammed. Suddenly ---- an eerie silence.


Michelle said, 'He hasn't killed her, has he?'


Ted rides his rusty bicycle
through the peaceful early-morning streets.
His head pounds. When he buys his fags
from the paper shop, and gets his Sun for later,
he asks me if I've seen 'the wife.'
I say no, and he shrugs: 'Oh well,
'She'll come home when she's hungry.'

Bruce Hodder lives with Michelle in Northampton, the most statistically average town in England. He has been published in quite a few magazines over the years, most recently ‘Academy of Heart and mind’ and ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’.