Doesn’t Like Fireworks
She’s hiding with the dog behind the sofa,
to comfort his quivers, honest, she’s fine.
It’s all going off outside. Much closer
to home than she’d like. But she’s fine.
It’s only 8pm – she’ll turn up the telly.
It’s X-Factor and of course it’s all shite.
She never even liked sparklers, as a kid.
Still doesn’t now and she’s twenty-nine.
And they’re still asking her to bonfires:
parties for burning, red cheeks and beer.
Workmates, her friends, even her folks.
Short memories. Blast out that old fear!
No way. Best stay shut in with the dog.
Even when he’s popping nervous guffs.
Vintage skin grafts invisible to the eye.
itch when she grips the remote too tight.