Dishes are washed
Dishes are washed
Not to be left
Until morning
Grime is a crime
His mum would say
Scrubbing the back step
Before applying whitewash
With a brush
He is a wave
Breaking on a deserted shore
Nobody knows
The wonder of its shape
The final curl
Before disintegration
Glasses need a polish
Before they are put away
Cups with handles
Pointed all one way
Keep your cupboards
As tidy as your mind
Has never been an easy
Proposition
For a man of his disposition
His thoughts scatter
Like wildfowl
From a farmer’s gun
When fired over the heads
Of scrumpers
On the run
Nobody hears
His chuckle
At the memory
Of his childhood pranks
Raising a glass
Giving silent thanks
Not exactly a prayer
He has never gone there.
People think
He was born old
Tut tutting as he struggles
With his groceries
Arthritic fumbles
Slowing down the line
Shopping out of turn
With the young folk
He hates the word senior
Likes a new song
Doesn’t believe
All children are wrong
And laughs at the thought
Of becoming a joke
Why should he accept
It is natural
To become
A victim waiting for covid
To carry him off
He often feels too scared
To cough
Tolerance in as short supply
As public toilets
On a high street
He can still dance lightly
On his feet
A little light jazz
And razzmatazz
Before supper
A biscuit and cuppa
Before bed
He hopes to wake up
Alive
And not dead
Nobody would know
As he is a wave
Breaking on a deserted shore
A final curl
Before disintegration
He once was
A promise
Of so much more.