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.