ALMOST
Cows and sheep segregate themselves
like children in a lunchroom,
afternoon drunks outside the pub seem
menacing until the police have a word,
the delivery man leaves a bottle of wine,
a good will gesture, and fifty one days
before the Queen would have marked
her birthday with a card Betty dies.
The brace of rabbits her father posted
weekly from the country to London
during the war, meant for the children,
always arrived. Write down what you
remember I’d often say, her mind out-
performing her body, but she never did.
Her eyes went first, then hearing,
then balance but dying took its time.
CAUGHT OUT
Stopper left in the decanter,
port spilling onto the white
tablecloth, she contains
the wine as best she can
with her napkin. No one
appears to notice. When
the decanter comes round
a second time, she asks
her neighbour to pour.
And into the right glass
a man at the other end
of the table calls out.
