by Patricia Walsh
Not working a day in the life, unfulfilled,
miffed at exclusion, me a die-hard,
giving enough attention to the scalded duty,
these familial machines spit out labour.
Intuited, for a small fee, for recognition,
not dreaming about the token Christmas
glass shimmering at you in a historic window
watching over work produced incessantly.
Reading the impossible, on the closed mic
mourning singular deaths in unison,
the abusive verse cuts across preferment
watching the newspapers at several glances.
Not simply an oil painting, justice being done,
Observed over salient pints still remembered,
fought for the minimum wage, scarcity
looking after one’s own, not thinking otherwise.
Bilingual prizes, just to be heard in translation,
fierce drying in the wind-chime of the night
liabilities pervading in a solid frame
fledgling destruction another way to go.
Saccharine sweet is the moment, above all
a full beard sought after, commended in life
rashly promised to keep the noise down,
a steady winner’s prize in the box all over.