November 28, 2012 § Leave a comment
Dad: bullwhips westerns until they give up their storyline,
groans when a woman comes on the scene, wants vittles
to taste like his mother used to make. In the covered wagon
of his armchair, pipe smoking, spurs on his slippers,
he holds his hand poised for a quick draw,
sees nothing for miles but blissfully empty desert.
Mum: eats her way through Creasey novels like
Mcvities biscuits; one after the other,
sucks at the plot; juicy like blood oranges.
She takes him all around the house,
ends up in bed with him, her gritted teeth
in a glass, hair interrogated by curlers.
And me: who trawls the library for a fat catch
to keep them happy for another week. They are
hungry, ungrateful except that Dad sometimes
gives me sixpence. I want to find the good books,
try from ‘Fiction A’ read all of Angela Brazil.
Repeatedly borrow Ballet Shoes:
the copy that always smells of talc .