Thursdays with Aunt Maud

 Each week, she’d bid me sit down;

pour us both a sherry she’d secreted

in a cupboard by the bed, to which,

the staff usually turned a blind eye.

Last visit though, I was bushed.  Lied

said I was pushed for time, and anyway –

I was driving that day. Poor old soul

was on her last legs, but then,

so were they all – in there.

That next Thursday, I didn’t go – gave

myself a break; had better things to do –

treated myself to a trip to Brent Cross...

Meantime, the nursing home rang –

left a message. She’d passed away

that very afternoon. I imagined her,

sitting there...waiting patiently for me.

Could picture her watching the clock –

worrying, wondering where I was.

And, had she noticed me – last week;

for ever looking at my watch –rolling

my eyes?  How I hated it in there...

a stench of greens, mixed with stale piss;

willing her to tell me she needed

the commode, to which I could reply,

“Ah, well... might as well be off then... 

Give you some peace.”

Hope to god that’s what she’s got now.

The life she had, confined to a wheelchair.

no life at all, or so I kid myself. 

But, if I could turn back the clock,

I would have joined her in that sherry,

and one for the road.