Poem in Which Sequence

In Which I Am Urged to Let Myself Go

There’ll be time enough, elsewhere, to fret
at how the indelicate prosper.
Let’s drink to the whimsy of the jolly-boat,
the evening cavalcade.
You find me garrulous? Then speak.
Even a cuckoo has more tongue.
Quid pro quo. Quid pro quo. Quid pro quo.

In Which Things Go Too Far

The lawn has not been mown in weeks.
It lays there moaning to itself, only I
can hear the rhizomes’ thin green whine.
Everything has a voice
if you pause to listen. Why else do we stop
our ears: phones, buds, muff, cuff, boxed
about the ears. Wheesht. Won’t you just shut up.

In Which We Pack It In and Shut Up Shop

Nothing turns out as you plan; don’t
give me your Easter Island stare.
Mice and men and the praying mantis,
equal prey. And I am tired
of the pelican mother sideshow here.
Get a life. Find a lift, hitch a ride. Stick out
your thumb. Fuck off till the cows and kingdom come.

In Which Dogs Feature Only Metaphorically, Alas

It’s easy enough to break the habit of a lifetime:
I’ll have what you’re having.
My years of simple living chucked out of the window,
gone to the dogs – Borzoi,
Labradoodle, poodle, lap. And the Lapis Lazuli Girls
are in the wings. I’m hoping one will show me
how she does that thing, like Cleopatra, with the kohl.

Isobel Dixon

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