Sunday, 1958

Cooking and cleaning done,
Sitting at the upstairs window;
Sunday-best twopiece and heavy butterfly brooch,
A cloud of talcum in sherbet pink;
 
Polishing the classroom floor made
Bloated sponges of her knees;
So hot last week almost naked under nylon workcoat,
But today is day off and sardines for tea with a thin slice of
 
Cold beetroot and lettuce from Dad’s allotment;
Rolls kiss of lilac lipstick in the dressing-table mirror,
Laughs: All dressed up and nowhere to go!
Nods at runners and riders on the street below:
 
Here comes the ginger cat with its tail up,
Look at old woman and dog they walk the same,
See Mr Upstairs On The Corner and his backward boy and
Mrs Downstairs Over The Road with a black man;
 
Checks hats coats hair with a giggle,
Pronounces age and frailty and degree of
Meanness and goodness and the kinship of brutes;
Divines several errands from the back catalogue of

Interviews and habits and the movement of troops;
Smiles while embroidering the drama of the working week,
Kneads gossiping fingers with inverted sadness or a dollop of glee;
Pauses to wink: You must always study your partner.
 
Net curtains gather in the Sunday breeze to
Gently tease her face and spectacles;
A veil bestows the gift of sight from a window perch,
Weaving the threads joining you and me and neighbours and strangers.

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