The three Wicked Little Letters branded on me by Gen Z: OAP

WICKED LITTLE LETTERS

My left leg will not be operated on until May, unless someone drops out

Or falls over. So, the week was a curate’s egg, waiting for Easter,

Containing a man I’ve never met whose letters were the thrown stones

Over which he hoped I would stumble, and a woman in chaos

Whose emails created a ripple effect that lapped at my boots

So I stepped sideways. Some days were like garden furniture

Tossed into the path of oncoming traffic.

I checked uneaten mouse bait, stain-blocked a kitchen ceiling

That I will never cook beneath, and painted two abstracts

That illustrated my inner workings in undoing

Whatever needs to be undone in order to move on.

I drove more London miles in a day than I would want to travel

In any month for dinner with a friend. She reminded me

That I was not yet the OAP as seen by the girl child

Selling tickets at the cinema, when she asked

“Any concessions?” Still three years from a pension

I took my full-price seat for Wicked Little Letters

Among a demographic that would nail me to its notice board

As an unmistakeable member of a club that is fast heading

Into the hereafter, swinging handbags and laughing.