Peter Butler

Our Street is Getting Old

premature
but bright-eyed
one spring morning

About time we had a young face, says the man at the bar, eyeing a
choice of cask ales. Our street is getting old. Bet she'll be a dazzler
one day if her mum's anything to go by. Tell the truth, I hear her
mum was a bit of a goer in her younger days. Wish I'd known her
then. Ever seen those pictures? Needed a quiet chap to sort out the
hormones. And he didn't waste any time, did he? Got her in the club
on first date, they say.

No, I haven't seen them lately. Busy with diaper duties and keeping
clear of the flu bug, I expect. You still on the gin mate? Stick with
real ale. Better for you. No wonder you can't get it up. Least ways that's what your wife tells me, ha-ha. Have a pint of the real stuff, go on. Put a spark in your engine, if you've still got one.

At the end of the road a black car, two men in black suits, walking
up the path with a small rectangular box. They clip on masks of quiet
dignity. You have to. It goes with the job.

above the bed
pink cotton booties
unworn