Finding holes

An ache has developed in the neck

of the damp old bird that pecks

at the rails of cancer, heart,

dogs, children, whatever,

spitting rain on the high street

won’t stop her finding holes

among the steamed rags of the dead.

 

Berating price hikes with one eye

stalking the till with the other

she spots a hurried man approach

slinks into position

perhaps marginally ahead

perhaps not.

 

-Sorry, I was first

- I’m in a real hurry, won’t be a second

-Huh, typical man

 

No friends left in the world

and no children to corrupt

this is her only link with life

ticking off shoppers

laughing it off with staff

or vice versa.

 

At the café she picks her teeth

for the cress in a sandwich

hoping to find a shell

but none appear.

 

That gives her an idea for next time

she’ll return with some shells

sprinkle a few onto her plate

as evidence.

 

She’d like to scream

run about like a shaman

remembers the blissful shoving

and elbow stabs

of the old jumbles.

 

She dreams

of getting tipsy in a pub

going up to a quiet ordinary man

whispering shame into his ear

fondling his balls gently

to fire his mind.

 

She hopes he will push her away

so she can fall to the floor

like a football player

smiling at the man

as he’s pinned down by the crowd

until the police come to arrest him.

 

The trips to town are killing her

the sneers and lilts

the tutting and cussing out of hand

it’s wilting her like a rain pelted daisy.

 

For years she would tap away

at her husband’s little brain

developed a cough laughing it off

but his heart gave way in the end.

 

Only now does she think she loved him

drinks her sherry in the evening

imagining worms playing hide and seek

through his eyes and mouth

rotting in the ground.

 

Back at her car

she finds something awful

belonging to someone else

slowly scrapes along its side

as she goes

dancing in the fury of others.