Wednesday, 25 January 2017
poetry 2017 / 019
Angela. Staff Trainee
She browses the knick-knacks,
examines the mismatched saucers
for pottery marks of the worthy
watched by the overweight lady on the till
curling her Poppy Red Number Five
through her fingertips,
lips smacking on the Juicyfruit
the manageress has already told her off for.
Not that she cares.
She wouldn't know a Meisen from a St Michael
but damages must be paid for
and she had her eye on that World's Best Dad mug
as a conversation starter
about this morning's failed pregnancy test.
Was a positive reading failure?
She doesn't know any more,
not since Planned Parenthood
stopped giving out free condoms
and the women in her social circle
started dying of HIV and back street abortions.
Still, Mrs Brinklow means well
and she's cheaper than the private hospital
who'll do a hysterectomy with complications
for three and a half grand.