“Paddy next door’s lost his marbles!”

Mahogany door slams Mondays
tirades of stomping,
black bins to blame
I am parallel
offerings of tentative smiles
olive branches
Paddy spits.

Navy days I am his daughter
prodigal and preserved
child of glow, gorse, playground
watercolour to aphantasiac
to snow.

Other days
I am a bitch
Paddy organises his fingers accordingly.
I wonder who I am that day
what affront I have inflicted
in past life.

Navy days
we sit beneath silver oak
tales of his grandchild
spill from my lips
the vast glacier plains of our back garden
sunny wintery Novia Scotia
traversing stalactite streets
how wonderful that must be
for a fictitious child

places I’ve never been
a life I’ve never lived

nor has Paddy.

“Just humour him.”

Some Wednesdays
a rotten chicken carcass is flung into my garden
squashing my wallflowers
cavernous and vengeful
in a sad type of way.
Paddy cries on these days
agonised wails reverberate

through my wall

through his
soaking through tired wallpaper.

Navy days I confide
in Google
Winter in Canada images
baby name ideas
babies in Canada in Winter

cherubs and snow angels
supplement my nightmares
on navy nights.


“Poor Soul.”