I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.
I have been to bed with her before.
It was a most pleasant experience.
Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.
She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.
She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.
Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.
Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.
My parents partied to Mario Lanza.
His records littered the credenza
before ending up on the turntable.
[ it was the era of Clark Gable].
and everyone would their glasses clink
when Mario sang ‘Drink Drink Drink’
He had a big voice and big loves,
and the habits of a tiger cub,
‘impossible’, it was said, to housebreak.
He died too young at thirty eight.
Way way back in ’59.
Then along came Elvis. He was mine !
- pic courtesy of Wikipedia
It is the perfect tea spoon
like the pen
I write with
snug as a haiku
in my hand
ready to stir
the sullen brew
- have you a special piece of cutlery or a small everyday item that is dear to you?
You can’t swat them
with yr hand.
or repel them
with incense coils.
They won’t buy it.
And you can’t
shut them out.
in yr room
Bite. Bite. Bite.
They whinge and they whine.
Those old anxieties, What ifs?
Those mozzies of yr mind.
I want one of these
so I can hoon around the street
like old Frank does on his,
zip around the shopping centre
when Security’s not looking.
I will have to save up though,
maybe trade in the car
but it’s a beauty,
a rhino of a Gopher,
the Humvee of mobility scooters,
a ‘chick magnet’ for seniors.
Yee Ha !
Today I have the mark of the beast upon me.
It came up overnight,
It cannot be hidden except by a mask
But when I take it off, to eat, to explain a matter,
to simply breather easier, friends,
people recoil at the angry red rash
that runs from the tip of my nose to upper lip,
like birds before a predator.
I cannot shave so look doubly abhorrent.
I am only grateful for covid where a face mask
can be worn without question.
It is my close companion, my Linus blanket.
You look like a newt
in yr birthday suit
she said with clear élan.
A little blemished.
A strange fit of a man.
I’ve read yr text.
I know what’s next
& up the stairs she ran