My beautiful mother
has been crying over the past for 35 years.
When I was knee-high,
I asked her to explain when the past begins.
"Now", she said. "Now, now, now, now."
"Isn't that the present?"
A pause for thought. "No."
~
Today, the arrogance of youth sleeps.
"Are these cranberries properly mashed?"
I ask, seeking maternal reassurance.
Mother carries on weeping like a scene
from Carry On Weeping.
"Is that a genuine Carry On film?"
She can't respond. Too many memories.
~
At the seat of the room they all wear masks.
We laugh because it's polite —
"You look like Marie Antoinette!"
"Ha ha! Let them eat Christmas cake!"
"She never said that you know."
"Yes she did. She's famous for it."
"No, it's a misquote. One of history's little faux pas."
~
"Anyway. . . Quality Street?"
Lucy points to a large sign above the bar —
NO CHOCOLATE ALLOWED.
"But it's Christmas!"
"Yes, but everyone here is a chocoholic."
Luckily, I'd hidden a Wispa in my bag.
No one need ever know.
~
Two bowls of untouched cranberry sauce.
The punch lacks kick and we all know why.
Somebody can't find any work.
Somebody is approaching a nervous breakdown.
"I'm having a nervous breakdown."
So that was the future, leaping red-faced
into the present.