There ambled he, the big round stooge,
grumbling of the weather, hacking
with a fever that January allowed him.
The rumbling lamentations of his trouble
strained the Sunday pilgrims.
They cringed when his angled brow
rolled and rustled in
greasy bellyaching.
On Tuesday he boxed his last -
like timber he tumbled -
to sleep in the grass,
now and there after.

David

I bought Michaelangelo's David once.
The salesman asked if I'd like it wrapped.

No thank you, I'll take him as he is.
Sir would like our range of paper...
No thank you.
Oh come. This apple blossom would suit him perfectly. Or this
silk drape? It runs off his back like water. What about this wonderful
pine display box? Too much like a coffin perhaps?
Look, haven't you got a brown paper bag or something?
We are not some convenience store sir! How about a Turpin-style cape
and painted moustache?
All I want is the man.
With a different hairstyle?
No!
Some lipstick!? A handbag? Yes! A feminine side! They're all the rage. Perhaps
You should cover him up too, know what I mean? What will your neighbours think sir!?
Oh forget it.

Well I tried. I settled for a souvenir model instead.

Thank the Lord for vertically-challenged construction workers

I had no hope, nothing to live for.
I had no hope, he was seven feet tall.
My life would be all but over
if it wasn't for that low beam.

The irreverent dinner lady

The irreverent dinner lady didn't care for our hunger,
swinging her ladle, cocky as Goliath, catching the odd pupil on the
head if he got too close.

We gave up fighting for flattery,
adorning slippers and tartan scarves at her hobnailed feet.
Some altar it was,
haunting even the bravest as the lunch hour loomed, producing not money,
but gifts from small pockets held tenderly in sweaty palms.

But flattery got James nowhere.
He'd swiped some gin from his mum's cupboard and presented it
now with tonic, lemon and quirky smile.
He spent Wednesday and Thursday locked in the school basement.

So we danced and sang for our supper,
But the coin in the hat was a spoon round the ear.
So we dropped to our knees and begged.
Please miss, a glass of water, anything, poison, if you'll allow...

Alas, she laughed.
Rumbled.
Near shook our quivering limbs from
Their righteous places.

Until suddenly she gasped.
Lurched and tumbled,
her ancient heart clasping tight inside her warrior chest.
The mighty shadow she once cast was finally shrouded by her fallen body.

Before a band of Valkyries arrived to whisk her away,
we cheered and gorged ourselves on mashed potato and strawberry mousse.

© Mark Sambell, February 2005

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