The Landlady – P.K. Page
Through sepia air the boarders come and go, impersonal as trains. Pass silently the craving silence swallowing her speech; click doors like shutters on her camera eye. Because of her their lives become exact: their entrances and exits are designed; phone calls are cryptic. Oh, her ticklish ears advance and fall back stunned. Nothing is unprepared. They hold the walls about them as…