You think I don’t see
how small your life is now;
how books and magazines torment.
You think I don’t hear
how tired you are of ‘pardon?’
You think I don’t get it
that the wartime-you still drives
an ambulance in Sunderland,
still dances, walks the dog along the sand;
that the walking stick taken up
Helvellyn and Gable has let you down;
that friends don’t call to see you,
that the dearest ones are gone.
You think I don’t sense
appetites diluted, horizons reduced
to the next cat nap, another small glass,
whatever on the TV, then bed at last.
You think I can’t be pole-axed
understanding how your choice
is pared right back
to wording on a breakfast pack
By Pru Kitching