Nine .am jangle of the day

spread out with toast and coffee:

‘’Too much butter!’’, my mother always said

I pile some more upon my bread

it doesn’t matter now she’s dead

it never did, those sharp curved barbs

she punctured in my flesh that sting

and swell some forty years of laughter later.

 

‘’Too sensitive’’ they told me:

as they beat me to submission

it lit rebellious firelight in my head

I’m still a rebel, but now it’s only ‘’me’’

I rail against.

 

Ten am the coffee’s dried out

in my cup, the poetry and pictures

piled up on a pyre of memories

some good some bad but most

are best forgot: they tell me Alzheimer’s

will take care of that.

 

The children tut and fight

their independent mother

seems a blight upon the landscape

of their lives! Oh no not I.

 

 

I’ll swarm my toast with butter

on some foreign beach. Mojito

in my right hand toy boy over there

just in my reach as time goes tiding by:

one heart one soul one solid mind

and then a star upon a moonlit night

gone supernova exploding to extinction.