scarecrow poetics/essays

Monday, September 05, 2005


Your Cushion

I never wanted anything from your house
Except that cushion.

Take something to remind you…

Nothing here does.

The associations of others are wasted on me.

I feel hawkish intruding upon your jewellery
And half-full bottles of perfume (many the same).
I never noticed you were glamorous,
Though you were known for it.

Mum referred to you as Flossy during her speech.
I’d never heard her call you that before,
But I smiled with the laughter of others
Who attended memories before mine.

The cushion was my steering wheel
As I burned around your house in my socks.
In the car after each visit I was ashamed
To be discontented, even a little angry:

You were so generous,
And I was your grandson,
Yet you hadn’t given me the cushion.

She would have said ‘but of course…’
If you’d asked.

Merrick Palmer © 2005.


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