Auntie Elsie, not quite a Chelsea pensioner
but can’t see too clear
or mention a fight in a local car park
without waxing vocal about men a lot
and not relaxing,
says aardvark when she means ardent,
bless the workings of her head,
and sergeants instead of sardines.
Auntie Jean scavenges in the fridge
for gherkins and sangria
and challenges her blistered and ganglier sister Fay
to a game of bridge.
For shame!
She can’t be a blameless wench and play
on the garden bench instead of my bedroom ledge,
damn her,
pardon my French and sledgehammer annoyance.
Auntie Ida attempts clairvoyance and warbles
by the baubles. Can’t she pack it in,
the din, the racket? She tempts
fate and stuff
with a plate of plum duff and sometimes rum.
Auntie Elizabeth witters and fibs
in Citizen Smith Women’s Lib shibboleth
with murky myths
over the turkey and trimmings
and grants me a bit of sherry if
I sit on the sofa
and act very perky
but distract less.
Auntie Jess always stands
in hallways, hands on hips
and honour
on her lips.
