Every time I post a poem I insist I don’t write many; that’s it’s not really my forte. And yet, I still write them, despite my doubts.
Although I consider myself a fiction writer, and a writer of short and long stories to be a little more precise, I love poetry. I love its conciseness, its ability to paint pictures and tell stories without telling stories. I feel it is closer to painting than other forms of creative writing.
So here is another offering, called ‘Glamour’.
Sun-bed ravaged skin dry flaking and decaying,
Masked by layers of painted make-up.
She sets the wig straight with faltering hands,
Since the bloody thing has slid over her eyes again
For the umpteenth time!
Now takes a deep breath,
Checks herself in the mirror across the room,
Turning her head painfully this way a little,
And then that…
‘Shit, I guess that’ll have to do.’
Both hands shaking, she lights a last, final, cigarette,
Her lips pursed and cracking,
She expels the smoke with a wheezing sigh,
One eye still on her reflection.
Then leans back awkwardly against the pillows,
And turns slowly towards the nurse.
‘Do I look good?’ She rasps.
The nurse nods.
‘You look good.’