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 the way of warm winds

that melt a frosting 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 until the crowing cock -

checks cell phone in shock,

it’s 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 the boarding bus,

departs for work with a minimum fuss.

And on the very spoon’s 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,

must betray that they despise,

Mincy’s grunts and Mincy’s sighs.