Poem — Mary Macpherson

Simple

 

I don’t like this loyalty card
my name and number stamped
on orange flowers
offers for forks and gloves and trowels
and guilt about not knowing how to live a life
with offers. I scowl and stare at bacon
as I compare one meaty pack with another
or try to let the big tabby sit on me
even though I’m wearing thin black trousers
because I should be more loyal to her.
When I lie on the narrow purple sofa
I imagine life as a string of coloured events
we somehow arrive at: for example,
it’s winter and the big storm comes
so we lie down and wait.

 

 Mary Macpherson

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