Mincy

 

Mincy

 

Mincy will be the next to go,

that much is some uncertain

for Mincy is as strong as net curtain

that’s been tacked up - blows

whichever is a way of warm winds

melting frostings of snow,

a smidgen, a light dusting, a suggestion,

a veneer of chocolate, an indigestion

that fails to clutch vanilla tight

and falls before the last bite.

Mincy has been up all night,

every night, first light,

carousing before a crowing cock -

checks cell phone in shock,

a left-hand-down-a-bit-welded,

palm fused and melded

into sweaty flesh that liquids drip

but cannot shake a grubby grip –

as the screen is swiped and flicked.

Mincy scuttles something frantic,

tripping over light fantastic

to reach a boarding bus,

departs for work with a maximum fuss.

And on a spoon’s very tip

lifted so carefully to a sallow lip

yoghurt morsels, a mincing portion,

each supped with overcaution

for a pot must surely last a trek,

while surly bedfellows with rolling eyes,

do betray that they despise,

Mincy’s grunts and Mincy’s sighs.