Sunday Dinner At New Nan’s Farm

I hunker down on the wobbly chair, away from flak and chat
about manure. I’m worrying over Sis manoeuvring sprouts

around a plate that smells… like those daffodils, the ones wilting
in New Nan’s vase. Green is the camouflage…ammo on our plates.

After the crime of food waste in a world of starving refugees
I pick a scab and hide the fallout in toilet tissue to flush with…manure?

I retreat outside with Sis while New Dad makes peace with chat.
Sis skids through the slick cowpats of No-Nan land. I thumbs-up

to the camouflage splatter…a darker green than the sprout grenades!
The cows are beer-bellied like…and stare like…they know…about a roast.

New Dad has had enough and tanks the van down lanes and around
bends as if there are no potholes or landmines or tractors hauling manure.

New Mum air freshens my trench. My jeans surrender on the washing line.
I Blu-Tack the report: crayon a cow and cowpats. I add a Sis. Why not?

Bin Life In Our Kitchen

I’m red and tall and impressively made
of stainless steel, superior as well
because all my stink inside is so much
much more than the recycling lesser stuff.
My pride gases up and spills over the rim.
Carers must dig their deepest pit. I fill. I win.

I smell all that quality stuff and admit to being
plastic, grey, just okay in height, but then
Carers manufactured me not to brim
or spill. Besides, and this is fact, my stink inside
will be reborn again to more stuff. Just like me.
This makes me immortal and sane and totally superior.

I’m smaller, much smaller than those two and green.
Not prim, I whiff plenty. Carers empty me a lot.
My stink inside goes all icky and yucky
and mucks up to a stuff for growing outside.
Carers declare I am the most superior.
This brims me stinking pride. I’m big enough.

Bottled

I need to haste. I know, the knowing mouth
replies, a bottled fact that loudly mocks
my bloodshot eyes. Always at awkward times
she shares the car and shares her lucid mind.
Turn left. Turn right. Turn tight. And never drift.
She persists to gear and steer the driving script,
insists on dating fate, her lipstick on
the mirror crayons fast and faster and more faster.
I clutch to be more slow and slowly be gone,
that I’m a breaking plonker, not her lover.
She empties another kiss. I drink the dregs
and throttle up. She blanks the speeding clock,
my motor squeals, the skidding wheels will lock!
Revenge? Revenge! Revenge? For being dry?
I close my inner eye. This is too real.
The bottle bottles up and grips the wheel.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, most recently in: Byways (Arachne Press Anthology), The Fig Tree, The Shot Glass Journal, London Grip, The Lake, Kelp, The Ink Pantry.

You can find more of Phil’s work here on Ink Pantry.