The three Wicked Little Letters branded on me by Gen Z: OAP
Still years away from a pension, poet and artist Frieda Hughes finds herself unfairly painted by an ageist brush
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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.