MARY

By Beda Higgins

The Christmas jumper my grandson bought me needs to go back.

Orange and yellow stripes aren’t for me

but he’s young and it’s the thought that counts.

Return policy is complicated with blacklines and rules for

a specific drop-off depo to use that is shut

                                  closed for three days strike action.

                                                           The present has to be returned by tomorrow.

I like a daily task since they told me about Swiss cheese

    comparing it to my spongy head

               and so I get up for the post office which opens at six am.

                            The woman who has nails tattooed on her neck

                                     waits

                      I fumble my glasses and my phone for the code

  it isn’t where I thought it should be but is in my emails and

          I’m grateful she doesn’t roll her eyes or hammer home the fact

                                  that I should

                                                        be at the other designated branch.

Instead, she shows me a line of bars

                                        and stuns the unwanted present with a red laser gun                         putting it into a special envelope

                         while I rummage to pay and hold out a card

                   marvelling the cleverness of plastic with no numbers to remember.

                          She smiles, “This service is free”,

                                                                      and ignoring the huffing queue

                         she touches my hand with a squeeze and soft eyes: “Happy New Year”.

                   And I learn my sponginess is a lattice where sunlight can still shine through.

#DarkPoetsClub