Tupperware Party

A modest suburban living room
greets women young and middle
aged as they gather to shop
in comfort for sturdy plastic
containers sold on the party plan.
After a hard day’s work earning
a living, caring for children, they’ve
farewelled those children, the husbands
and grandparents all babysitting
for the evening. Now they relax on
sofa, armchairs and floor as they
view smartly designed containers
in the latest shape and colours
artistically stacked on coffee
tables, occasional tables. In the
corner china, cutlery, cover
the dining table ready for the
supper set out in the kitchen.

Their interest is held by the sales
woman’s samples and brochures,
recipes and anecdotes; their questions
answered promptly, eloquently.
More foods and dishes are discussed
by working women who work for
most of the day wherever they are.

Finally supper, savouries and cakes,
coffee and tea as they question
the saleswoman, fill in order forms.
A comfortable evening, a meeting
of minds who spend their days
working for others but tonight
nurtured themselves while they
shopped for their families.

Vehicles

Mummy and Daddy with
two little girls, baby
brother and a baby
paraphernalia mountain
crammed themselves with
bags of food and clothes
into their seven seater van
to visit the cousins with
two little boys in the
mighty megalopolis.

The city cousins sneered
at this van in their
driveway, said only people
in unsalubrious  southern
suburbs drove such
low class vehicles.

Auntie Jo carries shopping
in her trundler, having no
car in her retirement
after three redundancies.
Grandpa in new late
model car, retired after
thirty odd years in one
workplace , is most scornful
of her trundler as his chic
car purrs around town.

Mummy and Daddy would
rather pay the mortgage,
feed and clothe mushrooming
baby brother than buy latest
trends stylish appearance.
Auntie Jo would rather buy
a comfortable life than a
four wheeled shopping basket.

Shopping Trundler

The shopping trundler
has a sturdy frame
with wheels which
squeak unrhythmically
under very heavy loads.
This stolid pack horse
had made many trips
home from the supermarket
with its fit and healthy driver.

The rubberised backing on
the trundler’s bag is cracking
where it sags around the jagged
corners of the bulky loads
it trails home so frequently
behind its energetic driver,
transporting them as efficiently
as a four wheeled vehicle.

One passerby at the bus stop
said that the trundler is
an old lady’s bag. What
does it matter when it
makes the weight of six
shopping bags so light ?

Dog’s Domain

The dog’s backyard is her domain,
a vital part of herself.
She polices it, sniffing out
marauding cats and
prowling hedgehogs.
The cats are routed
at high speed
with growls and loud barks.
She bites curled up hedgehogs
then cries when their spikes
pierce her tongue.
Now she is led firmly inside
to have the spikes removed.

The luxuriant foliage
of the vegetable garden
with fascinating odours
is minutely nosed at row by row
for possible animal scents.
The gardener works
under her surveillance,
pulled up weeds are all sniffed.

The sunny concrete path
is a warming pad
for middle aged limbs and back,
the shady trees a summer refuge
for a panting matron in a fur coat.

Her inspection of
her domain complete
the dog stretches out
dozing in the sun.

Originally posted 1 Jan 2016.

Cafe Lunch

What joy to sit solitary reading
big city newspapers leisurely
consuming latte and neat little
club sandwiches or scrambled
eggs on toast if I’m feeling
ravenous in the cosy surrounds
of a local cafe.

I’m told “meet more people”,
“get an interest”, “join a club”,
but it all takes up time I
could spend on writing and I
know lots of people already.
I need peace from their
jabbering to write out the
ideas sloshing around in my
head. wind down time in a
local cafe rebalances
my equilibrium.

A cafe lunch not made by me
is a delicious change from
soup and toast eaten while
lounging on my couch at home.

Lady Who Lunches

I’m a lady who lunches
such a grand status after
years of work lunches
snatched at top speed.
Sometimes a fifteen minute
sit down with sandwiches
and caffeine but often
it was lunches on legs
with so much to do
between AM and PM slots.

Now I’m a pensioner with
a modest income since I
found no part time work
in our stagnant local market
with few new openings
for those over fifty years old.
I was lucky to work
till I was sixty four.

Retired former workmates
and I dine out each month
– if we go grand one month
we eat Chinese the next.
But lunch out costs less
than dinner out costs so
one day a week I’m a
lady who lunches in local
cafes eating chef prepared
meals in stylish surroundings.
Sometimes with friends,
sometimes alone, but more
classy than sammies and tea
on the couch at home.

The Mouse

Little brown mouse
on the driveway
very still
mouth open
feet curled close
pink tail out behind.

School bag by the step.
Sad little figure
in young Chloe’s hand
crossing the lawn.
Buried in lush greenery
of wandering jew
under the corner trees.

“Come on !” called Mummy,
“It’s nearly time for the bell !”
“I’m keeping the mouse
safe from the cat !”
answered Chloe.
Too late to save the mouse
but no time to argue.

With Chloe buckled up
in the car beside her bag
they reach school before the bell,
wash hands after the bell.

Now on to kindergarten
with Claire.

Solo

The one level block of flats
spreads along side a narrow
lawn bordering the footpath.
Each flat’s front door joins
the footpath along thin concrete
strips bisecting the lawn.
Each little cell is walled off
from its fellows in the block.

Together yet apart.

The newspaper photo showed
its silent lawn and front doors
with no one in sight. Underneath
the report said an old lady
had died in one of those flats,
lain dead on her floor three days.
No one had missed her, only
a neighbour up the road who
spoke briefly with her each day
as she passed on her way
to the shops.They would greet
each other, discuss the neighbour’s
work in her front garden, but
never exchanged names.

The neighbour worried for
three mornings when she did
not come by, then rang the
police who found the old lady
dead on the floor of her flat.

Solo in death as in life.

An Outing

Seemingly sitting in her living room
forever, she saw daily the sofa and
armchairs in their worn floral coats
the mirror in its brassy frame rubbed
up weekly by the home help from
social services.Unable to even
shower on her own, her failing body
jailed her in her own home.

Her daughters and granddaughters
visited, sometimes moving her in
her walker into the conservatory
where she stared out into the
street  from her big old chair
waving to passing neighbours.

She envied her husband his mobility
scooter freedom but was thankful for
his company. He knew her feelings,
one day helping her, puffing and
gasping, on to his scooter, as her
lumbering body sagged its weight
on to the scooter’s chair.

Triumphantly she rode down the ramp
to their driveway, down to the street
as he stumbled haphazardly after her
on the walking frame. Excitedly she
looked up and down the street.
Sheer exhilaration !  Her Everest
remembered from months ago.

Now her body’s painful objections
stabbed through her.  She gasped, leant
back in the chair, then turned at last
back up her driveway, into her home,

into her living room cell.

Her last outing.

Election Trucks

The candidates little trucks are
rigged with canopies and loud speakers
with flashing neon Korean slogans.

Cramped under truck canopies
go-go girls in skimpy uniforms
dance in unison
to strident election jingles.

As late night shoppers swarm at
busy intersections waiting for
the pedestrians’ buzzers,
these jangling singing dancing trucks
hurtle along under brilliant street lights.

They careen uphill and down
through residential streets
past apartment blocks,
blasting forth their cartoon rhymes
that deafen late night neighbourhoods.

These local politics commercials
pound out ears
with their metallic uproar
concussing our brains.

How will the voters
disentangle the raucous strands
from the city air
to choose their candidates ?