Lasagne
Me , in this sloppy jumpernot doing haute couture,
jeans, well they hang on my
hips creating that bagginess
on the knees.
I have an outfit with tags on
hanging in the wardrobe
and the roof of my car
needs some fungicide
sprayed on it.
I've been trying, crying
the patience of some god somewhere.
Two lasagne's made, a baguette
wine in the fridge
I'm picking, waiting for the plane
to land, sanding my knees
on the floor as I flick
chicory sticks, and pine
and I have a lemon infuser.
My jumper has holes in it
it is meant to, I wore my sons
checkered holey socks
but my feet are still cold.
I filled up the car, took back the trousers,
spent time in a market buying
ingredients, only to go out three more
times for the things I forgot,
like pasta for a lasagne
and paying a surcharge on a card
leaving a poor young postmas
slightly dumbstruck on the doorstep.
Ghosts, knock sticks on the floor,
I wear disreptuble trousers
that bag around the knees.
Poetry by Elle

Read 771 times
Written on 2015-01-06 at 20:17




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