Late winter elbows past in wind and rain
while teenage waiters bearing lemonade
and shandy take away my mother’s pecked-at
Yorkshire pudding. Back behind the bar
Michael Jackson blames it on the boogie
in the beer-and-whiskey half-dark as we
escort her to the car, one at each elbow,
each sparrow elbow, as if making an arrest.
My sister will drive her home to kitchen kettle,
phone and new commode, her days behind
the wheel, she’s finally admitted, over.
I ask about the doctor. My usual plea.
God has moved his armchair over Tewkesbury.
