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Poetry

British Holiday

Let me tell you

how to have

a British holiday.

It should rain

every day.

Forget your umbrella

though,

and leave the car window

open overnight,

so the pages of the map

stick together.

Maybe the sun

will appear

for a moment or two.

That’s your cue

to don the shorts,

flip-flops,

sunglasses,

before it gets

swallowed again

by grey.

That’s when you

return to your

newspaper

in your damp

holiday cottage,

and listen to the

drip, drip, drip

of the leaking tap

and the rain.


But British holidays are still the best kind of holidays.

Emma

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October 19, 2017
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Wednesdays

Wednesdays A Poem

Palm comes crashing

down onto the table

as you thrust your papers

into my face.

“What is this?”

you demand,

spitting in your fury,

mouth frothing.

Yet I’m the one feeling caged

“It’s all wrong,

why is it wrong?”

We stare at each other.

Both red-faced.

Both a little alarmed

by what you do next.

You tear away

from the desk,

like the shreds of paper

you leave behind

for me to clean up.

You roar,

slamming the door,

as you go.

I take a deep breath.

Smile, of course.

Whose next?

“Hi, how can I help?”


Customer service.

Emma

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October 12, 2017
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The Man at the Station

I see your legs

bent and broken,

and I think:

Thank God

I can still walk.

Thank God

I can run,

if I wanted to.

I return to the sofa.


I was musing today about the marvels of movement, after seeing an elderly man being overtaken by speedy commuters on their way home from work.  It was very humbling, though I still spent the evening in front of the television.

Emma

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August 22, 2017
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