Pensionland
Emptying the dead hot-water bottle
these cold mornings, I point it
at one potted tree or another -
sometimes out front, wondering
whether a passer-by might smirk -
me hunched in my dressing-gown at nine -
sometimes out the back,
where only the dogs, themselves
with bladders to empty, observe.
Water used not to be so precious;
even now I donšt wholeheartedly
join all the water-saving games
others practice so righteously -
showering with a bucket
between onešs feet, for instance.
Hot water bottles are so passé -
everyone has electric blankets.
As we did, till two summers back
upsizing to this king sizeš bed
with fleecy under-blanket.
Do without? - easy,
till the cold nights came.
Something nicely traditional about
boiling the kettle before bed -
nearly scalding onešs fingers,
tightening the stopper,
planting the bottle where soon
feet, two pairs, can benefit.
But mornings one would rather not
potter about like an historic relic;
whatšs in the morning paper
is of the most modern sort:
exploding vehicles, children
abused, no-one safe but me
complacent with my life-pension,
and the dogs, and our mistress;
my scuffling slippers discoloured
by the last lukewarm droplets.
9.15am, Wednesday 4 July 2007
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
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