Tick Poem by James Mills

Tick



She shuffles in,
a smell of cooking on her.
The doorbell trembling above
'Yes? '
Always a lilting positive.
'Ten Embassy, please' -
manners on the boy.
'And Ma says, will you put them in the book? '

I tried to look past her,
see her boy Edward,
the one we weren't to laugh at.

She had a faint moustache,
darkening as I grew older.

Fags slid to a halt
on the scored glass counter.
Behind her, in the house
rustle of paper and a discreet cough.

She licks her fingers,
flicks through streets of debt,
'Right.'
Stubby pencil makes a marvellous noise,
'Tell your Ma to come in and see
me at the weekend.'

I run home with the sullen invite.

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