Poetry

Red

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She never usually wore red but today was different.

“Tis only a whore that’ll dare to wear red!”

Her granny once told her, before she was dead,

“Fur hat and no knickers!”

Was another of hers,

“Especially on Sundays!”

I think I’ll wear furs…

She takes the faux fur coat from the wardrobe and tries it.

“I’m right!” said a voice from the pot on the shelf,

And she took it off quickly in spite of herself.

“Gran?” she said nervously,

And picked up the pot.

“You look like a cheap whore!”

She replied, “I do not!”

She sat on her bed with the pot in her hands.

“You don’t understand Gran, you don’t understand!”

She sobbed to the pot that lay cold in her hand.

“No, indeed I do not,”

Said Gran with a sigh.

“You’re a beautiful girl,

Explain to me why?”

She sniffed back her tears and started to talk.

“Remember Tom, Gran, with the dark floppy hair?

He told me he loved me then ran off with Claire!”

“He never, the bastard!”

“He did Gran, he did,

Now they’re getting married

And having a kid.”

She stopped her tears and looked down at her dress.

“I’m wearing this dress Gran, I’m making a stand,

I may look like a whore but it’s already planned.”

“Well, it’s not too bad.”

“I should be in that,

“That hideous peach dress,”

“What, and the peach hat?”

She looked at the peach mess that hung on the door.

“A bridesmaid? His bridesmaid?? You gullible fool!”

“I know Gran, I know but I knew Claire from school.

That’s how she met my Tom.”

“You stay dressed in red,

Bugger up her big day

And knock ‘em all dead!”

She loved her Gran, she did, though she couldn’t always talk to the pot.

“We’re scattering you next week. With Grandad.”

“Aw, well, that’s nice dear. Now, where’s your coat?”

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