mid February

The discussion among the women queuing in the corner shop this morning was all about what gifts their husbands had bought them, and how those who hadn’t would be suffering the consequences.

None of them had any intention of giving presents themselves –ya no estoy enamorada-, said one, and the luncheon meat, cheap frankfurters and processed cheese in her basket confirmed that she wasn’t planning to cook a special Valentine’s meal, either.

I can’t say that I’m celebrating, either, though I have dug out a poem from a few years ago when I was living in the centre of Madrid. I don’t think I celebrated much that year, either.
 
 

Mid February

It’s cold again today. There’s fish bones,
orange peel and dog shit in the street.
The concierge at number 32 has mopped
the pavement; now she tips
a stream of tepid water at my feet.
Lather swirls in a grey tide
between cobbles. It froths,
and dog-end boats are wrecked
in scummy rock pools.
The bus stop’s empty: seems
I missed the 8:05. I wait and watch
my breath disperse.
                 The bus looms
in the semi-dark.
I board, and on the radio
I hear the DJ smirk:
Happy Valentine’s!

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s