Changing the Colour of Your

 He steered me towards the artichokes

in the market in Genoa, away from

the hairy haunches of horse.



The Ansonia clock chimes through the night

—bong bong bong bong—

the refrigerator is making cold—white noise.



The golden labrador

in our frog pond

making a meal

of our one water lily.

Sorry!—says George.




Because I shifted the sugar bowl to another table

the ant struggling underneath one white crystal

may have a WTF? moment as it fetches it home.



If I hang her picture up, she will be safe.



He’s in Tunisia. I saw it on Facebook.




They love you too much or not at all or in the wrong way.



When I read his hand I saw two children—

Yes two, definitely two, a boy and a girl.

As it happened they were my children too.



Actually, I have had three children

but one was a flop. And I forget

about Jonathan, most of the time.



Face Blind

He didn’t know me in my red beret

I used to wear a natty black bowler

he said as if it was all my fault—

You’ve changed the colour of your hat.




A Night at the Theatre

The play was bad.

The set was bad.

The actors were very bad.

The directing was bad.

The lighting was bad.

The sound was bad.

I wanted to leave at the interval

but my husband said—No, it’s rude.

The supper? The supper was good.


The little dog next door but one barks and barks and barks.



Picket Fence

One person on a camp stool, painting.

One person on a camp stool, watching.


I led her into the ring on her scruffy pony

but she balked at answering questions

about the points of a horse and some such.

She turned and said in a small, clear voice—

I don’t want to be judged. So I led her out.

Leave a Reply