Goodwill

 

Goodwill

 

And someplace, 4000 miles from here,

she grumbles, all cat curled on the sofa,

watching lap-topped dribbled basketballs.

Too quiet - her slippers, a mug of cocoa,

probably pulled that T Shirt over her toes,

so that it's stretched out in peepholes.

Across gritty sands the cold Atlantic rolls

and he’s facing the wrong coast, anyway,

over there it’s Ireland that he can’t see,

hunched shoulders against wind, turns,

hobbles back towards paddocked cars,

pushes past your Christmas Day crowd,

doffing Santa hats beneath grey clouds

and they’re always walking in opposites

with the glittering eyes of covetous trolls.

The tree is stripped as bare as a bride,

they’ve disinterred goods that lay inside,

cast asunder, ripped guts from another;

and he’s thinking of his curled up lover,

shooting baskets and shooting hoops.

Later picking through Christmas wrap,

stuffing it vigorously into black bin bags,

grunting; rubbing that old aching back.

Then strips out carcass, picks the meat

from his sticky fingers sucking at grease

vacuums up mince vegetables at his feet,

washes, dries and stacks up the dishes,

thinks where be loaves, where be fishes

and where’s his fairy with three wishes?