An author of Speculative Fiction, speculates about fiction.

>Poems (dont get used to it)

>I don’t do this often. And when I do, it’s normally crap. But on occasion, I write a poem that makes me chuckle or just seems to work. Once in a blue moon, that is. Here’s one of the former, a poem (that’s really a story) that makes me laugh when I think about it. Let me know what you think:

The day I sold Grandma

In my defence, she was surplus to requirements.
She’d told me every tale she had in her head,
imparted every nugget of advice a hundred times over.
She’d pinched a million cheeks,
given a trillion dry kisses,
her lips buckling for the lack of any dental scaffolding.

Her “pins” were bad, she said,
an excuse for me to hoover her carpets.
Her Arthur-writes-us would flare in the cold.
She took more pills than a suicidal Pharmacist.
So she went to the charity shop
because I’m not entirely cold hearted.
“One careful owner”, I said.
They took her there and then,
lifted her right out of her flannel slippers.
The last thing I saw of her was her blue rinse disappearing into the crate.

She’s in Rwanda now, they say,
performing her Grandma duties for the children
who have never had their cheeks pinched
or felt the imploding kiss of an ancient loved one.
It’s good she’s being put to use,
like a favourite chamois leather.
Instead she dances in the street,
kicking up dirt with the children in bare feet.
The heat has cured her arthritis, you see.
In her safari shorts, vest and sun-browned skin,
she’s happy,
I’m happy.
Now I have room for that pool table.

Thanks for reading.

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