WAITING FOR THE PIZZA DELIVERY GUY
I have stationed myself at an upstairs window
like the worst kind of curtain twitcher,
like a weaponless sniper,
like a hawk hovering on the updraft
who has rejected the cowering hors d’oeuvre
of the fieldmouse for a loaded meat feast
on a deep-pan base with a side order
of garlic bread. Tennyson’s eagle
never fell like a thunderbolt
on some poor bastard on a moped,
Hughes’s hawk in the rain wasn’t getting soaked
outside a branch of Domino’s.
Whether there’s a Papa John’s in Bodega Bay
is a matter of speculation, likewise
the precise number of birds on the telephone wire
behind the building, beaks sharp as their gaze.
HANGOVER CURE
The curtains are doing a bang-up job
of holding back a morning so bright
it would otherwise do grievous harm
to the eyeballs. Ditto the double-glazing,
muffling the racket of that lunatic
two doors down taking a strimmer
to a hedge the length of the Maginot Line.
And here’s to you, my other half,
partner in last night’s libations,
for the ice-cold glass of orange juice
and the mug of fresh coffee brewed
to a thermonuclear temperature:
the head clears, the day can be faced.
Angels are singing in very quiet voices.
MY MOTHER PLANS THE PERFECT MURDER
The entire Christie corpus under her belt
(a sneaking affection always for Marple
over Poirot) my mother moves on
to tartan noir—Rankin, Meyrick, MacBride,
the whole eighty-shilling-swilling crew,
then gets stuck into the American canon—
maverick cops, hard-boiled private eyes,
hulking thugs, dangerous dames
with dubious agendas. She assimilates
whole libraries of this stuff. She is au fait
with poisons, blunt instruments
and various calibres of handgun.
She could plan the perfect murder,
which is why me and Dad mind our Ps, Qs
and the rest of the ever-loving alphabet.
My mother walks the mean streets
of leafy Lincolnshire villages, eyes
scoping every corner and cut-through,
identifies the CCTV blind spots,
specs out the best route for a getaway.
X-RAY
Efficient as an AK-47, the receptionist
directs me to a seat. I settle in
for an almost-certain wait: Wordle
on the moby, paperback in pocket,
cup of water from the dispenser.
“Neil Fulwood!” Neck the water,
re-pocket the paperback, holster
the moby; leap to feet
and report for appointment.
Only to be taken through
to the joyless alcove
of the male waiting area, where
“there might be quite a wait,”
according to a nurse grim
as the reaper’s little helper.
I entrench myself between two chaps
in hospital gowns, the gaps
of which push for a game of peek-a-boo
I’d rather not think about,
never mind participate in. Book out,
eyes down, try to follow
the serpentine shenanigans
of a hard-boiled thriller. The TV,
beaming ‘Flog It’ from the opposite wall,
thinks it knows better on the entertainment front.
Three days or three pages or five minutes later,
my name again—called softly
so I almost miss it, then go tumbling
out of the alcove in a dervish of limbs,
book and nerves. Me and hospitals:
not the best combo. The room
the radiographer ushers me into
is epically big for the single bit of kit
nestled in a corner like Optimus Prime
with a hangover and a shit paint job.
The radiographer retreats behind Perspex.
Me, I sit right next to the thing.
I answer questions and try not to overthink.
Or even think at all. There are whirrs
and clacks and I am asked
to reposition my hand, like this,
like this, then as if
I’m writing. And it all feels
smooth and easy and not at all
like I’m dead-set for a dose of something
that will either give me superpowers
or put the kibosh on this month’s holiday.
But if this were an original story
and yours truly a comic book character
what alter ego would erupt from me
on the bus ride home: the Incredible
Grump, Captain Grammar Nazi,
the Amazing Poet Boy? I ring the bell
for a stop a stone’s throw
from a decent real ale pub. Wallet
open, fiver out, first of the day.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The world is come upon me. I used to keep it a long way off, but now I have been run over and I am in the hands of the hospital staff.
—Stevie Smith, Selected Poems
______________________
Welcome back to another of our British SnakePals, Neil Fulwood! Always a pleasure—but please try to keep your mother under control, Neil~
•••June 15 is the deadline for the Swan Scythe Press Poetry Chapbook Contest for 2022. See www.swanscythepress.com for formats, etc. “Any living poet writing in English is eligible to submit.”
And a reminder that there are several events happening in our area today; check out the link at the top of this page—UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS.
_______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
