Accounting by Irene Cunningham

Jobs, people, faces hidden in pockets;
mounting years flicker, ticker-tape back when.

’69, flashes purple flares, dresses
ride up thighs fall down legs skirt floors. Music

sparks flames, names, oxtail soup and hot roast beef
in the Starlight Room. Songs are dates. Pixels

dance, bordered…disordered geometry
gyrates. It’s life, Jim – not as we know though

stages lose plots and minds are hot to trot
running scared, framed in film with mixed reviews;

out-takes fascinate and halt the process.
Understanding is language suddenly

learned, a code reduced to numbers
and the what-ifs slap at every wheel-turn.

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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