Three Scores & Tea
Elfin Stevie, flame-haired naïf,
frocks and socks at forty-odd,
stamping her iambic feet,
casting spells to filibuster Time
who shrugs Its shoulders, admits defeat,
lets her off all-tainting certainty
blanching the couch in the bay window glare.
Death comes even to suburbia.
Aspidistras wilt like shadow spinsters.
Doily wills curbed by window-sills
turn in on themselves for three scores and tea
in Aunt Lions best-china-rattling tray
one lump or two to spirit her away.
Poor jilted Freddy, cup-sipping pity,
might have patched one flesh together
had she pinched her nose,
held her breath
but as wife shed very little to offer
but bitter wit and junket;
an infantile infatuation with Death;
besides, her typists fingertips
were only prone to wander keys.
Shelf-in Stevie, faded old maid,
her life, one long settee sit-in
on timeless catnapper, cigarette-
-singe verses to stimulate her mind
deeply morbid in the thundery gloom
of static parlour, crochet dull
shed have believed in God had He
not been a vengeful, damning one
but she could never reconcile
the Christian Doctrine of Eternal Hull.
If you've any comment on his poem, Alan Morrison would be pleased to hear from you.