STAIR
There is a gap beneath the front door that attempts to sully the stairs
on an icily cold winter morning, the frost cheering the windows.
Uncle says we should get that fixed, that we are throwing money away.
This is a regular conversation I wish I could inter. I’d even leave flowers.
If you’re going to reproach us then form a queue with the others, I say,
marking him for another brute to mingle with a dozen from yesterday.
Then something fishy happens. A letter from the council arrives
stating they can’t send my council tax bill as it has gone viral.
How can this be? I say. They spout something flaky and assume
I will be happy with the explanation offered. I look at uncle,
his bushy eyebrows giving full on perplexed vibes and I
decide the best thing is to just let the payments lapse.
Robert Harper
Poem 9: #NaPoWriMo 2022
(Wordle, Quordle & Octordle results from 9th April)