"clammier" poems
My niece is sat opposite me
My niece is in possession of paint
And a paintbrush
And I’ve surrendered my hands to her.
That tickles!
My face scrunches
Paint properly plastered
The newspaper in front of us her dad had put down for her she swaps for plain
I wiggle the digits on my
Upward facing palms.
Now flip!
Like this?
She nods
And splat
SPLAT!
The One That Married Into This
Via me
Comes in from the kitchen.
I rise from my cross-legend position
And pat his cheek as we meet in the doorway
Then I rest my hand on his shoulder,
Trying to gaze lovingly,
As opposed to smirking.
He doesn’t notice the paint
Because it’s warm
And maybe I’ve just got clammier hands than usual.
I go to wash my hands off.
Your turn!
Le artiste demands
My turn?
Everybody turn!
Great-aunties groan.
Alright then.
SPLAT!
The One That Married Into This
Touches a reassuring
Painted
Palm
To just below my back.
So ordinary
We only notice the paint prints
As we graze the hall mirror
As we start the 30 minute process
Of saying goodbye
Walking art
He whispers
As we walk out the door
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 10:22 AM UTC