Red scarf, ribbon tight
She’s scrunched up, sitting
Right opposite the words I write.
Silent eyes, they’re black and white
Two pennies in a wishing well.
She looks like Frank Spencer
Muscles taut not tender,
So past tense she’s presently
Making me much tenser
Like fake outrage pretenders
Or angry letter senders
Defenceless views defenders,
Penny pinching Christmas present spenders
She’s staring, she don’t think I notice,
But know this, I notice
The noise that her nose makes
When snowflakes are falling
Check her eyes are chessboarding
It’s me she’s eyeballing
There’s no-one she’s fooling
With her internal name calling,
Time’s still, its stalling
No sand is falling,
No beach on vacation
Dictate her destination
It’s Brixton, she calls it
South London’s plantation
She hates the state of the nation
No experts, no doctors,
No lovers or relations
Self-diagnosed a lack of patience
Hanging out in outpatients
The nurse says it makes sense
To go home and stress less
There’s no need to confess
That the gin in her handbag
Is the height of her excess.