entry picture


We used to raid the freezer

in that dirty garage but cement

and dust made him cough.


His mother was a puritan;

he'd sniff and splutter when upset,

dance defiant on the car roof

then run off to town

giving her two fingers.


Winter mornings across ice,

spitting steamy gobs

through a face-hole in wool

with pale knees shivering

out of coarse grey socks

and after he died

the school doctor said

I'd developed a resistance.


Wouldn't need that second jab

like all the rest of them.



Published in Message in a Bottle Winter 2017.







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