My mother's
at the sink,
doing washing
or washing up,
I think.

My old man
made her cry
earlier that day,
but she’s humming now,
so must be OK.

I watch her
as kid's do,
study how
she moves her hands
to work and such,
but the old man
did not care
or do as much.  

My mother's
drying dishes,
eyes about to cry,
I look away
wondering
what or why?

My mother's
dead now,
laid to rest
with Jesus
or God or both
amongst the best.

My old man
took me
to the West End

it was evening
bright lights
from shops
and theatres
and such

I was dressed
in my best suit
my old man in his

a handkerchief
tucked in
my top pocket

my hair Brylcreemed
flat and tidy

we going
to see a film?
I asked

no we're going
to the amusement arcades
spend a penny or so
then have a drink
some place

see who's about
sometimes
you can see
a film star
here at night
in between shows
he said

I nodded
and gazed about me
usually we saw
a movie
took in some
old chestnuts
from a stall
on the roadside

once he took me
to some café
which sold pan cakes
and I ate them
with a sauce

we walked
the bright streets
he at my side
I taking in
all I saw
people passing
all different faces
and shapes

and then
there she was
Billie Whitelaw
I’d seen her
in a film or two
she was standing
between two guys
in suits

she looked at me
as I looked at her
then she was gone
in the crowd

and I said
to my old man
seen her

seen who?
he said

that actress

what actress?

Billie Whitelaw

huh?

she was just there
with two guys
walking along
in a white dress
I think
coat like fur

where is she now?
he said
peering about him

gone into the crowd
I said

he gazed
into the bright lit street
like some pilgrim
who had just
missed Christ
going by

he looked dumbfounded

I looked at the sky
don't know why.

There are days where I stay in you all day
Wrapping soft sheets around my exhaustion
Hiding from the world
Mostly you are made though
Meticulously tucked and folded
Into an Icelandic grey satin present
My fingers itching to unwrap you
Yuletide greetings all cozy and warm
To a sore frame in need of rest
I accomplish much on these days
Inner turmoil organized
A place for everything and everything in it's place kind of reassurance
Although I would be lying to myself if I said these days are my favorite
There is such extreme freedom in being able to tell the morning to *******
Turn over into your pillow
Stay there.
All day.
Rarely does this urge pass my frontal lobes
sometimes I just cannot help myself