Jenny Hockey Poetry
It’s his job to heave the blue baskets onto a trolley
— his TESCO fills my window, his job
to inch the trolley through the ferns, the peonies’
packed buds, step by slippery step. My job to open the gate
but sometimes he finds it locked and instead
takes a walk through the woods, picnics on my corned beef,
swigs my whisky and throws my sauerkraut into a pond,
works on his juggling with my free-range eggs.
It’s my job to open the gate but sometimes instead
I climb into my wardrobe, chew on a cardigan sleeve,
develop a shabbier kind of chic. And sometimes we just
stand at the door, the Tesco delivery man and me
and he tells me he’s sorry the basil got crushed
and maybe the eggs could do with a check.