Twenty-Seventeen by Irene Cunningham

They’re hell-bent, serving you up, minus tent
or man-made cave, you’re a cold dish to be
ignored. Winter’s coming, dark already
lowering. My cup doesn’t overflow, though
I fill it, my hand is steady and practised,
my two rooms snug in this greying landscape.
I apologise for the difference.
Parliament broth is thin…not a healthy
grain in it yet the recipe pervades,
invades this life to kill what they see as
leftovers living free in the basement.
The planet would probably love to shrug
us all off, have a good scratch, ease itself
of vermin clinging to its very soul.

Irene Cunningham
Irene Cunningham has had many poems published in lit mags across the years, including London Review of Books (as Maggie York), New Welsh Review, New Writing Scotland, Stand, Iron, Writing Women, and others. Now she’s preparing for old age before the scythe lands. Her new blog, still a work in progress, is here:

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