Its beginnings … well
she hoarded she did,
threw nothing away,
everything had its value,
nothing was wasted,
might be needed tomorrow…
In the kitchen it started,
but not as you might think
on dirty old worktops
littered with used plates
grease congealing the remnants
of yesterdays’ dinners cooked eons before,
nor the myriad of cups of all shapes
and all sizes solid with mould,
milk soured & congealed & firm at their base.
Nor in the sink stagnant its water,
globules of grease floating idly atop,
no it started in there,
that place in the corner,
that place in the corner
behind that grubby old door,
the door to the larder, the larder
where she flung her old foodstuffs
or anything unwanted anything definitely dead;
oozing sprouted potatoes liquefying in plastic,
chewed bones from the roast & her mouldy old bread,
anything rotten or rotting, her meds never swallowed,
Tigger the old cat, dirty broken old dentures
and stuff from the downstairs commode
(you’d rather not know).
And the sun and the heat and the air did its thing…
isn’t life beautiful?
Came the time when her worried son visited
for it was time for that talk of where she should live.
That talk of the need of a care home for her needs
far outstretching the care he could give.
Tommy came too
(her delightful young grandson)
and he baulked as she hugged him, hugged him
ever so close to her bony old chest,
and (he) wanted to vomit as her dentures
clacked as she kissed him, and squirmed
as saliva wetted his tiny horrified lips.
(And oh how he quivered, he quivered,
poor little terrified mite,)
Go now said his father
and he willingly did so,
wandered the hall to the kitchen
and opened that door.
That door to the larder
where new life was pulsating,
and inquisitive he, he sat on the floor.
In its glutinous puddle a potato thing
eyed him with its mean green solitary eye,
its orifice bursting with her dirty old dentures,
and terrified he, he knew he should run,
but so wanted so needed to touch it
and touch it he did.
It bit off his finger and ran up his arm,
'granny' kissed him wearing the most terrible smile,
and terrified he peed at the moment his heart stopped
(poor little mite (paying the price of an inquisitive soul!)).
And potato thing, bloated with blood & hungry for humans,
grinned and opened its mouth and swallowed him whole.
Susan’s prompt at Poets United is that of the word Beginnings and above is my offering. Cheers for the inspiration Susan!