Forgotten
by June Owen
june@juneowen.wanadoo.co.uk
You stand there
shouting
that I had not
shut
the fridge
door again.
Making use of your
height, towering
over me,
wagging a fat
finger.
I want to reply
with some searing
wit
that will cut you
down
to size and
leave you
shrunken,
deflated, maybe
even
apologetic.
But the words,
as usual,
will not come.
They lie in my
throat,
like soggy bread
that has to be
swallowed
away.
But I have
compensation,
even contentment,
in
knowing that the
fridge
door catch is
broken, as
I have told you
many,
many times
before.
©2008 June Owen
June would love to hear what you think of her poem - email her now
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