Honey, is that you?
Hair whitened like the carcass of a beached porpoise.
Your fingers a garden rake,
clogged with fallen leaves and Irish cliché.
And cheeks puffy with undigested ostrich anus,
raw fish eyes and recycled vegan.
Your true-blue peepers, a reverse prism
shrinking rainbows to monochrome,
where every darker skin becomes Chris Eubank.
Ivory smile like coffin lining silk,
yours the imprint of a separated hatchling
raised by Baroness Council House.
Sonar of your bat ears fine tuned
to swerve any answer to any question.
And the nerve to get away with it.
Bossy yet servile,
you carry that gilt-edged file in ministerial red
like some fashion accessory.
A pantomime villain we secretly fear,
the poster girl for build-back-better days to come.
Seems like every time I see you
Darling, you are up to something new.
ix. 2021
* with apologies to Chuck Berry
