Each night he’ll cook his beans and sausages,
will feed the dog, switch on the box at six.
He’ll rant across the news, will curse and damn
the many kinds of bastards he’d ship back
where they belong, would shove out on the streets.
And then celebs and Strictly, lets himself
drift to a sumptuous lust. Such legs, such tits.
His whippet bitch (been with him now eight years)
sleeps gently as he scratches ears and chest,
mutters his fumbled sentiments in Welsh.
And then the lust and dreams fragment and spray,
like diamonds spinning from a chandelier,
revealing facets of a younger time:
back from the Army, dancehalls, bop. The wish
to lay his heart before the girl from Ton.
The whippet is let out at ten, sniffs earth
and snorts and roots (has found maybe a shrew?),
poises herself to kill for her desires.
you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet
would be pleased to hear from you.