blair’s mum,
Irene and timothy,
ricky on the edge of life,
rang me up today:
laney popped in on her way,
to save her brother again;
imelda rang and explained
she’d spoken to her Alzheimer’s man who’d defined her likely decay;
my daughter wrote, of course,
about something I can’t disclose;
my son sent me a photograph
no one can ever see;
my doctor emailed a summary
of my life expectancy;
my friend sent a text to say,
everyone in the neighbourhood considered him, ‘some kind of a Robin Hood’
but he was not okay,
while the rain which belongs to February
fell on all today:
Monday being Monday
same old same old day
Cherry Coombe 