
Out already?
Yes.
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
I wash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
Yes.
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
I wash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
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.
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 !
Snip
Snip
Snip
Like scissors
Snipping hair
Your
Swift
Little beaks
Snip bugs
From the air
What is the cat looking for under the gate?
Perhaps the old tom two doors down trudging across the road like a sloppy sentence.
Perhaps the purr that left her mysteriously six months ago.
Or maybe she’s dreaming of the Krazy Kat cartoons she loved read to her as a kitten.
Or what the rest of her siblings are up to at the Pet Barn and whether they landed on her feet like her when she was adopted.
Or maybe she’s just curious. She’s a cat after all.
Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.
I seem to make a habit of it.
Maybe because I was born prematurely.
I don’t finish novels either.
or most short stories.
Even half my poems I bail out from.
Relationships too.
I have meltdowns. Walkouts.
But hey ! I have three kids.
Nothing premature there.
And I’m still with my gal.
Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.
But that might be a little premature.
There’s a miniature submarine lurking
at the bottom of the aquarium .
It is smooth and black with feathery gills .
It is an axolotyly .
We call him Axle , of course .
Most of the time he just hangs around
amongst the water weeds .
Perhaps he’s lonely and depressed .
But every now and then
he rouses himself
and cruises around as if on patrol .
The other fish give him right of way .
Perhaps he thinks he really is a submarine
on an important mission ,
keeping the waters safe for democracy ,
for instance .
Sometimes when he cruises past the sides
of the tank
I give him the thumbs up .
It seems to give him a lift .
Iron Man isn’t up to it today.
You can tell by the way he slopes around
in his baggy shorts and tee
dazed like he’s been smoking weed.
He dawdles a lot between reps.
Guzzles the urine coloured liquid to replace the energy he hasn’t used.
Plays with the machines like a cat with a mouse.
Jabbers at Stella how she isn’t doing it right,
to anyone really with a loose ear.
Truly he is more motor-mouth than Iron Man.