12 July 2012

Land of the Badger Warren

in the land of the badger warren, Sunday-
that day of rest- is now spent in the
shopping centre

while he flies home to dollybird and
the four chickens

her sleep shattered (a pleasant dream, too) by
a telephone call from Honduras

now, her business her own,
twisting the sheets round, round,
round, then packing them flat, the
words already written upon them

and Big Ned still stinks of
silage after all these years, the
moldy odor of it never quite
gone from his boots

No post on Sunday (or shall we
call it the mail?) the circulars
slip, slipping from her fingers to
the rubbish bin below

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