I heard them making love in the next room
all night on and off at every hour.
I heard moans, whisperings and sighs
and in between silence and its power.
I hardly slept, they kept me half awake.
I saw their young bodies intertwined.
I heard laughter, sniggering and cries
and passion urgently defined.
Next morning I prepared to leave quite late
and went downstairs to organise the bill.
Such a sense of emptiness about,
the office open, everything still.
I needed coffee and a fresh croissant.
The manager in black at last appeared.
“Those people in the room next door to mine . . . ”
He looked at me, I smiled; I’d say he leered.
“There was only one man in that room.
Old. We didn’t know he was dying.”
I looked at him again, he looked at me.
I could have sworn that he was lying.
by Vivian Smith
from Poetry International Web