all me own work
Hated you, Sunday night tea, you were disgusting.
Picking at winkles and whelks, resembling snot,
along with grey gritty shrimps bought from some
terrifying man, shouting his wares.
The strip light overhead exposing the
manky limp salad.
Being forced to eat beetroot, peeled and stood in vinegar,
stinking out the tiny living room, glaring
at me menacingly.
Haunting my dreams.
Sing Something Simple on the radio.
Sweetless, as no shops were open.
The telly, firmly switched off, fearful
of breaking the tedious Sunday silence.
School the next day.
Things were very grim indeed.
My brother’s girlfriend, coy under her false
Auntie Doreen’s stern features
set as stiffly as her boufant hair.
Her lips permanently glued in disapproval,
Her powdered skin, loveless and cold.
Once, my Gran, from the seaside, came round,
and the room lit up in a very different way.
After tea, she gave me a lolly and I sat on her lap,
my stomach growling dangerously.
I was sick all over the mantelpiece.
A silence. My Mum lighting a fag,
auntie Doreen’s face curdling milk,
girlfriend giggling nervously,
Gran reaching for the whisky.
That was the best Sunday night
I had ever had.
And now a school less day to follow.
I warned them about that beetroot!!