I’m sitting in a twinkling shack
or palace, call it what you will.
Porcelain angels glint and crack
on the windowsill.
She stirs my tea, she jams my toast,
she scrubs my plate until it bends.
I mustn’t help my shuffling host,
as that offends.
So I just wait and sit and stare,
waited on and hypnotised.
I’m locked into a frilly chair,
immobilised,
a helpless slave to servitude
as years are syphoned off my life.
Don’t take them! God! Already you
have eighty-five.
