A Penny For Them
Usually, there's twelve to a shilling.
Fat, warm, copper browns
but not in that three up, two down -
if you look close, they’re a penny short.
Wondering if it’ll be caught
escaping by way of tainted summer canals,
secreted in the sister’s pocket
after everyday lifting from a Mother’s purse,
bit naughty, but could be worse,
and on the towpath home from school
she’d pull it out, like a hot plum
from Jack Horner’s pie.
Swift into the sweet shop, buy
a fistful of fruit salads, blackjacks
chocolate coin, kayli, something like that,
fill their gobs, scoff them quick,
like a David Nixon conjuring trick
and then, in a fit of righteous panic
rub teeth with toothbrush fingers.
Would candied breath lift the latch,
speak the crime, blow the gaff?
Marching that winding path
that weaved its way through gated gardens
above Slack Walk is its own class
taught - if you’re up for it and willing.
No comments:
Post a Comment