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Whole Nut 
by Patricia Walsh

Reminiscing on high, a singular entity

not to surface anywhere soon, an exit cleared,

shunting the retarded into a living cupboard

viewed at a remove, a ringtone demonised,

simple mathematics watered down on spec.


What is left now to follow the rules?

Not to associate left hand with right, perhaps

necessary obligations lazed into the morning,

stopgap accommodation beloved at once

home-bird concatenations restricted in due course.


More family secrets than any other, nicely,

not getting style from another, mercifully dead,

miffed at exclusion, deserved at a glance

prayer for occupation aimed at getting a job

not striving as yet, financial surprises looming.


Humble destinations, productive misgivings

failed at every turn, not wanting to be heard

this parish joke, through marriage and birth,

quietly financing a singular disease

producing once a day is simple enough.


This teacher’s minion, popular all the same

the unemployable sound catches a fire

living responsibly, dark veins of housing

bouncing off indolence, hurting desirably,

the functional terror of a granted station.

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