rest home
screams unnatural to me
mother looking down
ignore it, don’t acknowledge it kind of scowl
so we shifted through the piss
smelling corridors
past rooms where skeletons with a lick
of skin rocked back and forth unknowingly
past flowers aching in their vases
battling the air to mask the stench
the nurse with insomnia disguised
as black saturn rings prized a smile from somewhere deep
walked us through the living room
where frayed suede armchairs swallowed
bags of bones skin like moulding orange peel
accountants / doctors / politicians / professors
lights out in eyes that once saw vividly
a singer in the corner they enjoy it the nurse lied
why do you miss when my baby …
nobody claps
tv’s whip the walls with colour
comfort in an empty room full of inevitabilities
she smiles time after time
holds my hand hers almost dust in my palm
one last squeeze she knows
the carpark is rammed i point at the singer
stealing a fag in the fine rains of september
don’t point mother berates it’s rude
Paul Robert Mullen is a poet, musician and sociable loner from Liverpool, U.K. He has three published poetry collections: curse this blue raincoat (2017), testimony (2018), and 35 (2018). He has been widely published in magazine, journals and anthologies worldwide. Paul also enjoys paperbacks with broken spines, and all things minimalist. He is a regular contributor for Marias at Sampaguitas.
Comments