The glass of
beer,
She’s
put it on the table.
She
drinks the glass.
The
cylinder of beer
Remains
unmoved by this.
“That’s
odd”, she says.
A
cupid’s arrow through a heart
And
meeting no resistance she’s pushed
The
straw all the way diagonally,
Till
both ends are sticking out of the column of ale
“No
use” she says and bins the straw.
She
takes a genuine
Belfast
linen
Tablecloth
from the old pine dresser;
She
has it taut over the table
And
with a blink of a flick, “Ah Ha”, has it slicked
Under
the roulade of brewed malt.
“Brawn!”
he says, eventually home,
Cuts
the loaf in half lengthways
And
claps it up, a man’s, a real man’s sandwich.
“Wheresh
tha mushstaagh?” he tries to
Enunciate,
drowned in breadsops.
She’s
made the bed then pushed him out.
Not
with her back flat against the wall,
Two
feet straining to roll him,
She
pushed him with a whisk of
Her
duster along the bed head,
With
the swirl of the water down
The
plughole of their bedroom basin,
‘Tirra
lira by the river”, she sang,
Tippitting
downstairs with the wpb.
She
let all the wardrobe doors fall wide.
“O
lucky lucky moths” she enticed, “come feast”
And
stood at the back door with the town plan,
Pointing
out, as the suits, chinos and blousons
Walked
past, the sensible route to Oxfam.
She
listens for the screech of brakes,
About
now they should be crossing the main road.
Silence.
“Good. They’ve used the Pelican crossing”.
She
put all her rollers in, a scarf over
And
went out by the front door.
“Old
horse” she said stroking its bonnet
“No
more grooming for you.”
She
sat and played with the electric windows
Letting
the old nag rub its neck up and down the gatepost
And
since it was so obviously happy she leaves it
With
the keys in the dash and the sunroof open.
She
spent that night, a bottle of gin
In
her left hand, the cane of the long
Bamboo
feather duster in her right,
Twiddling
up the words from the corners
Of
the ceiling and from round the lampshades.
They
come away easily but
“My,
this looks like a long job”.
The
next day was bright and clear
So
she took the house by its
Chimney
ears, shakes it inside out
Pegs
it on the line and
Standing
upwind of the cheerful breeze
She
wallops away with Granny’s cloverleaf
Carpet
beater. “You were right Granny
About
the cleansing power
Of
sunlight and elbow grease”.
In
the afternoon she unhooked the clothes
Prop,
mastered the flapping house,
“Last
time I do this!” she said
Flipped
it right side in and plops
It
down on the footings but a touch off-
Centre
so the blooming lilac tree is
By
the window of the sitting room
But
inside now.
back to 2004
winners
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