Nan

College foyer on the phone,
seeing if she’s made it home.
Yes who’s that, what do you want?
switch on your ears Nan, its Keith,
oh my god, Henry it’s the police.

Painful joints and blue rinse hair,
Bingo to play from a comfy chair,
nip upstairs and fetch my dabbers.
Cabbage cloaks the common room,
then pies on Thursday afternoons.

Hello love come on in,
have a look in the biscuit tin,
hunched back and rheumatoid claws,
hips that click and weight she can’t gain,
false teeth smile that never complains.

To pass the time,
on crumpled hands
I stick thin skin together.
Blow pipes and liquid tubes
bruised by pygmy pins
she starts to ask about
my day, in a joined up breath
that’s all she would say.