Onions

coppery skins fall to the lino,
brittle to the touch, as
another scream starts, then arcs

and falls away to silence.
they cause no tears, these
onions, as she keeps calm

and carries on, the booklet of stamps in
her apron pocket chafing the tips
of her fingers as she touches them,

for a moment only giving those nerves
sway, then raises the volume on
the radio, following each note....

in the mood, casting her mind back
to those cold pavements in grey November
before the fires of bleak December

throwing the bone into the fire, the
whitened hulk aloft for a fine moment
before it falls to the flames

she inclines, and inclines again, slicing
the onions fine, swaying so slightly, stockings askew