Summer Pudding

No...this isn’t a poem,
it’s just a three-day old loaf,
blackberries, and raspberries
picked from bushes in the yard...

yours truly, chilling out
after spending the afternoon
trying to convince him he’s far
better off where he is...folk on call,
twenty-four-seven, rather than living with me;
all that specialist equipment he needs.

Anyway, it’s nice – where he is...isn’t it?

That he’ll soon settle in;
it’s merely a blip – a slight
shortage of staff.

God knows, they mean well;
don’t they?

And it’s really no big deal
to be left dying of thirst...
to be ignored for an hour
in need of a commode...

It’s this shitty cafe I find myself in...

Some kid’s snotty nose at the opposite table –
another – slinging fries on the floor,
splurging them with her Nikes, then yelling
for a milkshake while her mum makes love
to a mobile phone...

It’s his words still unwinding from my ears,

“I’d like to come home. I’ll try harder,
next time, I promise.”

No, this isn’t a poem...it’s just the makings
of a summer pudding, and no one
to bake it for.