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Potty Training

Embedded high,

pale puffy putty folded face

is bonneted with white curls, yellowing;

Dickensian, her cousin-married father doubt,

the city oyster bar owner.

The family always retired in early hours,

spending their mornings in bed, so

the habit ingrained, she there remained.


Perhaps a Quaker focus group, or prayer circle,

a dentist wait without a magazine distract;

the high backed dining chairs

gathered around the tower-block bed

statue us, as if we watch a death-bed scene,

or await séance, tempted to hold hands making round,

our distant relative unaware that she is expected

to act accordingly.


Aunt, misnomer, is beyond my understanding

to label in familial tree;

A step-great-aunt, that step too far,

sister of grandma's husband, two of three.

The connecting links died years before,

but living close, father leads us to this gloomy house

experience of spinster pink beached whale encased

in layers of coral woollen shawls.


Enveloped in waft of moth ball stink,

lies this declining satrap,

a potentate receiving obeisance.

My lowered ten old eyes peer at lowest mattress,

mind wondering if a pea secreted, fairy tale,

except beneath my gaze perceives

the large glazed white unemptied chamber pot.

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