Margaret
We often meet by the lift,
Margaret a queen, a crown
of white hair above her goat-toothed face.
There you are Penny, she says.
She always calls me Penny.
High heels, ironed skirt, she’s off
to serve the meals at the boys’ school.
She’s the age to retire, but they’ve asked her
to stay on. Imagine food
from her lived-in hands, that wonky smile above.
You’d go back for more.
Sometimes I see her with a smart man
in a blue blazer, a sailing type,
and then another, wearing old clothes,
with a slouch. Ah, I think, she’s got
the raw and the cooked, coming out her door
at different times. Then, getting closer
in the lift again, Margaret joking with him,
I see they’re the same man.
Now there’s a queen for you.
Gets everything she wants
without tossing her crown
or even crooking one royal finger.
Page(s) 126
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