twister

twister

 

my mirror tells no lies

I’m middle-aged, paunchy,

balding, no big deal

 

my Christmas dinner,

chicken stew (with sprouts),

is defrosting

in the microwave

 

I’ve last year’s pack

of crackers somewhere -

I’ll eat afters in a paper hat

 

then doze watching telly

reliving memories

of standing outside

in siling rain

 

pebbling her window

half-praying, half-begging,

‘darling, darling, let me in’

 

walking home,

desperate to weep

but the bitter truth dawned - 

and no tears came

 

I had been a mere extra,

in her shabby soap opera,

seduced by a smooth-tongued liar's

bedroom pillow-talk

flights of fancy,

 

“we’ll  float high in a gondola

banqueting

watching wildebeest roam

the plains of Serengeti”

 

“we’ll sail emerald oceans,

braving icy mists of centaur breath

in cloaks of alligator fur”

 

but my mirror tells no lies

I’m middle-aged, paunchy,

balding, no big deal

 

no Charon will ferry me

magically through spin-drift seas

there’s sodden flotsam all around me -

everything, everyone, ebbs away

 

for dessert, a box of ‘Twisters’

with ‘sensuous hazelnut filling’

washed down with antacids

 

antacids and tea.

 

ps this must have been written during a particularly maudlin festive season.