She wanted so bad to be edgy,
To square her rounded mould:
“Adidas for Joules, vaping for baking,”
Was a mantra she to herself told.
Each day in her cap a new feather
(She donned a fresh peak from Ellesse):
MD, EDM, and avid Corbynism
Were the limes from which she squeezed zest.
But one balmy afternoon whilst reading–
That Postmodern bulwark, Infinite Jest–
Her eyelids drooped, her head soon followed,
Until her chin found respite on her breast.
She awoke– oh horror!– to a shapely
Metamorphosis, a most peculiar bodily lesion!
Where once limbs and curves, now
Twelve vertices: enough for a dodecahedron.
A spirited woman, in Leicester Sq. McDonald’s:
If the cold’s twofold
Send it back
And they’ll reissue it.
Poetry lashes significance
To the mast of the everyday,
For fear it might plunge overboard
At the beck of Time’s glutton bray.
Clean strides up Fulham Rd,
Landing on the heel,
From the feet.
Ahead: a cigarette, pinched between
Fingers, propped up by a thumb.
Hold breath for the overtake…
Relax too soon–
Ashy cloud inhaled,
Cast loathing shoulderwise
Or a child sent early to bed.
Shake it off.
Continue into the smog
Of a thousand rush-hour cars
Up Fulham Rd.
He was on the couch again.
He was having thoughts again.
Thoughts about killing Grandma.
Sheila inked on her Moleskine:
Primary caregiver’s primary caregiver.
They sat in silence for fifty-nine minutes.
Then he admitted: she’s old, I’m young–
I won’t succumb to her arthritic thumb.
Nodding like a pendulum, Sheila
Penned a careful addendum:
Remind Karl re: Boohoo order.
Like ermine in the summertime,
I’ll need you
Six months ago.