deepundergroundpoetry.com
Mr. Parkinson, his wife and his two boys.
(Bad case of the jitters)
She stands at the sash window, and inhales freedom.
By six am every morning, when the charming male neighbour leaves, she's there. It has to be before her husband wakes.
She watches the birds scatter across the grey-white sky, without interruption.
With the damp washcloth she wipes away the eyeliner on her cheeks, post-drink.
The skiing holiday, the ivory wedding, their two boys at nursery are memories now,
locked in framed places on the mantelpiece. Each old photograph fuses cracks
in her, where the weight of playing nurse day in, day out affects her shoulders
and her hips.
By the burning fire, his left foot trembles in red fleece slippers
as he rests his weary, bald head
on her weaker knee and she yawns. Still numb, staring blankly,
listening to life pass them by with each of his heavy snores.
Her mind pretends, for days at a time, they're up and away
on a fantasy cruise where the boys can toy with young affairs
and they could indulge in a world of poker, cigars and Whiskey,
an adult playground. It's an awful dreary affair.
She tries to explain it to the boys, over breakfast. There isn't a
cure. Usually they end up talking about artillery, from Dad's time in war,
and how to blow the jitters out of him.
"We aren't ready to lose him, Mum."
Original:
birds scatter
across grey
the kohl on cheek
post-drink
and
patchwork memories
fuse cracks
where weight hits shoulders
and hips
his
foot trembles
head rests
on knee before furnace -
ignore life
Mother
up, away
bell tolls -
in our world, awfully
dreary but
loved
fetch the
cure or
artillery, we aren't ready
to lose
him.
31.01.12
http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/?gclid=CPz6543i-q0CFcxofAodpHXkrg
She stands at the sash window, and inhales freedom.
By six am every morning, when the charming male neighbour leaves, she's there. It has to be before her husband wakes.
She watches the birds scatter across the grey-white sky, without interruption.
With the damp washcloth she wipes away the eyeliner on her cheeks, post-drink.
The skiing holiday, the ivory wedding, their two boys at nursery are memories now,
locked in framed places on the mantelpiece. Each old photograph fuses cracks
in her, where the weight of playing nurse day in, day out affects her shoulders
and her hips.
By the burning fire, his left foot trembles in red fleece slippers
as he rests his weary, bald head
on her weaker knee and she yawns. Still numb, staring blankly,
listening to life pass them by with each of his heavy snores.
Her mind pretends, for days at a time, they're up and away
on a fantasy cruise where the boys can toy with young affairs
and they could indulge in a world of poker, cigars and Whiskey,
an adult playground. It's an awful dreary affair.
She tries to explain it to the boys, over breakfast. There isn't a
cure. Usually they end up talking about artillery, from Dad's time in war,
and how to blow the jitters out of him.
"We aren't ready to lose him, Mum."
Original:
birds scatter
across grey
the kohl on cheek
post-drink
and
patchwork memories
fuse cracks
where weight hits shoulders
and hips
his
foot trembles
head rests
on knee before furnace -
ignore life
Mother
up, away
bell tolls -
in our world, awfully
dreary but
loved
fetch the
cure or
artillery, we aren't ready
to lose
him.
31.01.12
http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/?gclid=CPz6543i-q0CFcxofAodpHXkrg
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