All the maturing hippies from the seventies
are exercising and eating well.
They don’t want to end up in tiddly bits
like my poor old mum.

She’s curled her spine
into an arch
but the tunnel is blocked.

What’s she got?
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she moans.
‘Go away, you’ve completely changed.
It doesn’t matter.
Go to hell, I’ll be dead in a minute.’
Anger blazes in her eyes.
It’s an old fire under a lid
that’s flared up
and is licking her to death.
She hesitates to take her fingers from the flames,
the job of salvage
always one millisecond late.

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