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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 05, 2016

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Submitted: September 05, 2016



Myfanwy supped her tea
from her saucer,
just like Auntie had
before death claimed her,

like some debt collector
thinking she owed him.
Tea warm and dark
and sweet, just how

she liked her men,
Auntie used to say,
and laughed until
she nigh wet herself.

Myfanwy stared
at the photograph
of Auntie
in black and white

and laughed.
Funny old biddy;
pipe smoker,
gin drinker,

man eater,
unmarried or divorced,
she'd not say,
better, she'd said,

that way.
She gulped the last
of the tea
and put the saucer down

on the table,
and lit up
a cigarette
and sat smoking.

Jones the Bones,
her useless boyfriend
(for want of
a better term)

had asked her out
on a love date
(he'd said
dyddiad cariad).

She had said:
I'll think about it,
see how I feel
after Chapel

and Dai Thomas's sermon.
Jones had'n't
been impressed.
Wanted his end away,

I expect,
Myfanwhy mused,
watching the smoke
cloud out Auntie's features

in the frame.
Not that she
minded mind,
but he seemed

to expect it
like a dog a walk
after a meal.
She scratched her thigh;

that last time
in his rather
dilapidated room
and that single bed,

had not left
her thoughts
or her gin
soaked head.

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