What Am I Knitting?
Last night I dreamt on a soiled mattress
and woke as Mrs Somebody-or-Other,
wearing this hat and second-hand clothing,
throat stuck with unfamiliar language.
A stuffed and bandaged museum exhibit,
temples throbbing to the Boom-Boom-Boom,
tuning in for news of the children.
This sausage no longer tastes of sausage
and these days everybody locks back doors.
Still, all sorts enter, nobody’s knocking:
the stethoscope whispers, the bloody samplers;
take seven from a hundred – what am I knitting?
Soup in the kitchen and poisoned apples:
how many cooks keep the doctor away?
Evenings we loll in an air-raid shelter;
tea and biscuits, bingo on Saturday,
wait for the humming to end or commence.
These dreams are not mine! Not mine
these teeth and breasts and dresses,
these spectacles that will not rest on my ears.
They should be home by now.
Copyright © Raymond Miller 2017
Ray Miller – Socialist, Aston Villa supporter and faithful husband. Life has been a disappointment.