November in Bridlington
the promenade is long and cold
two gulls perch on the pier-end
they scream at nothing
and the sea sings back at them
scrawny children weave
in and out of bollards
an old man eats fish and chips
with a small plastic fork
a stout moutstached lady
sits beneath the neon change sign
that flickers
like the final heartbeats of a Mayfly
the sea-mist rolls in
and on the cliff-top above the town
a small boy watches
as it pulls across this godforsaken place
with all the gentleness
a coroner affords his corpse
The eating habits of hard-shelled animals
[One]
there was always a boiled ham
in my Grandparents’ larder
for fifty long years
they sat around their kitchen table
the lace crocheted covering
filled with soiled crockery
and the shadow of Grandpa
puffing on his post-dinner Dunhill
[Two]
the wild giant tortoises
of the Galapagos Islands
mainly eat prickly pears
Darwin noticed
how they differed
from tortoises on neighbouring Islands
their shells so much thicker
[Three]
on television a scrawny
-faced nutritionist
spouts on about how food
is a social super-glue
holding together this fabric of flesh
we call family
but I roll my eyes
flick the channel
to watch Coronation Street
instead
[Four]
I’ve been adding up
the minutes lost
since you convinced me
to buy the 600 watt microwave
reckon you owe me three days
that will be written in bold
on our divorce papers
beneath the long list
of irreconcilable differences
Miss Gale
takes the $5 note
invites him onto the bed
& counts the squares
on the ceiling
as he barks like walrus
into the eiderdown pillow
when he’s gone
she cleans up
taps her naked heels together
& thinks of home
I love the observations of the first poem. It’s presented in a very matter-of-fact voice, that makes the end seem more sad and forlorn. I was fascinated by the loose connections in the series “The Eating Habits…”. The way the objective is mixed with the personal. You’re so talented, and I’m very impressed.