The Mother
Forty-two years of fish and chips
and sometimes a pie.
She smelt faintly of grease and Harvey's Bristol Cream
smile stretched taut against painted lips.
A husband once
until he slid down the bottle never to climb out.
She didn't miss him.
She had a son who was her world
but he contained in his strange world
barely noticed her.
Plump and pink on Sundays she sang her
jubilation in the church choir.
Prayed to God with eyes scrunched tight
then home for Coronation Street.
The years had made her frail. Stolen her dreams.
A canvas blanched of colour, pale and
diluted. This was her life.
Disappointment, a clenched fist within her chest
yet still smiling the deceiver's smile.
Too proud to crumble.
Heart aching with love for her only son in his shadow world.
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