Body Talk

Tucked away, in the depths
of the freezer, among the
chicken breasts and loaves,
is his cold shoulder.

His wild roving eye is a-roving
no longer.
His bloody cheek
is in the dustbin.

The spleen he used to vent is adrift
with the finger he never used to lift.
The back of his hand
is in the glove compartment.

And this? You know what this bit is.
Its a pain in the arse.
He used to trouble me with it
three times a week. Of course

I looked for his heart
in the padlocked chest
of our questionable marriage
but his heart wasn't in it.

I looked and I hacked
and I chopped and I hoped
and I searched and I sliced
and I and I and I

cancelled my order with the family butcher.
I cancelled the papers and milk.
I opened my mouth
and put his foot in it.



Way back, when I was visiting a secondary school in Bicester, the Headteacher (who was quite a progressive, adventurous chap) at short notice, in between 2 workshop sessions with younger pupils, took me into a 6th Form group and said I should read 'Body Talk' to them. After I'd read it their teacher said, 'Well, that's one way of looking at the world!'