The visit
18 January, 2008
Come in, sit down, and have a cup of tea.
Give me a kiss on my powdered, wrinkled skin.
Stop breathing at the musty smell of my clothes
Filling your nose, and try to smile without inhaling,
As I move away from your cheek.
Smile at the pictures on the mantelpiece
And nod as I tell you about my health.
Stroke the cat’s head as she hisses at you
On her way to the knitting basket by my feet.
Peer through the net curtains obscuring your view
And say how nice the garden is looking.
Go to the toilet for far too long, and stare at your watch,
Wondering how long you should stay.
Stroke the arm of your chair, with its doily to stop
The dirt getting in. Look at your shoes as I tell you
About half forgotten memories of long ago,
When Churchill was in power and you could still
Get change from a pound for a day out on the train.
Look at my hands, wrinkled and puffy, as I fiddle
With the catch on a box of old postcards.
Stare at my thin, whispy hair and my attempt
To apply some make-up. Eat just one more biscuit,
As I force the niceties of a forgotten era down your
throat.
Watch the time tick by slowly and make up a train
You have to catch, an appointment you have to keep.
Smile weakly at my advice and think me naïve,
In your conviction of how things should be done.
Talk about things you no longer care about, and feel
Embarrassed as I remind you of your youthful days.
Become impatient and bored, and start ignoring me,
Pacing up and down the room, fingering objects you barely
Noticed before. Decide finally to leave, placing your hands
On your thighs and starting to rise, raising your voice
Over my trailing conversation.
Only then, will I decide to say something interesting.
But it will be too late, you will have started to leave.
Your carefully developed excuse will leave you no
Imaginary time to fit in just five more minutes,
To enjoy the glint in my watery eyes, the laugh hidden
In the creases around my mouth, unnoticed until now.
Realise that I am more than the dry husk for whom
You perform your weekly duty to prop up your conscience.
See that there is more to me than you have thought to
imagine.
Observe that my world was more than the deteriorating
Remains of a family home, tentative trips to the grocers
And shuffling to the Post Office every week.
Notice that I am what you will become,
That I am your future. But lie more to cover up your lie.
Leave my house with a lingering sense of guilt
That makes you hate yourself as you hurriedly smoke
A cigarette on the graffitied platform of the station.
Promise yourself that, next week, you will appreciate
Me more, that you will not spend your time thinking
About drunkenness, sex and office gossip.
But forget that vow the next time you look at your watch
And realise that you are late in coming to see me.