Elaine Feeney



Was a suicided priest book of condolences opened in my way day. Everyone
with an angle day. Today was a pus pimpled teenage boy taking his

money shot at my tits day, with a handful of coins he owed me day, and said a fuck off or fucked me off day, and the sky was a shy sky day letting nothing down

only rankle smog, it was ignoring my children day, until they buckled day, so it fast became Victory Day but then to the mad doubts of knowing they will never

call me with a Pancour Jackhammer in their hand day, because I’ll be hanging the new dappled red curtains or doing a draining the sink of sludge day, don’t

interrupt me kind of day, and there are chores more important than how you will sit yourself at the center of my day kind of day and demand me to pay you the

kind of unbalanced attention needed from a 50’s cinema usher or a posh train trek across Vienna or off a child psych day. It was burnt sienna orange sweater

day, and then worrying if burnt sienna is a bit too poncey a west coast of Ireland kind of word day. Today was Sylvia Plath telling me she wanted to be a carpenter

or a doctor day. I agreed. I would love useful with my hands kind of days. Save a life day. Save a wife day. I wish it were a carve Sylvia&Ted wedding topper

day. It could be a bake-cake day, if I could bake-cake with my-hands-are-useful day, and I would ice a beige walnut and green kiwi cake and give my husband

decent head and not be shy about it icing kind of day. And today was a traffic jam day and a blue tooth conversation about memory with said husband day, I don’t

know did I talk to him or to the soused air day. Today was a church bell day and my hell was a mahogany classroom window that wouldn’t open day. Today was

my crying friend day and the bent pole of the trampoline kind of day. It was a saturated day, a pouring rain day, a Vivaldi dominated House of Pain Day.



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