Impromptu with sharks
to hide from the incoming sharks
that my brother saw in the bath.
We were underfoot while Mum played Chopin
to calm us, her nocturnal children.
My small ears didn’t like Beethoven,
he was too loud and angry.
I stopped talking to Ludwig,
who still had his joyful hair.
Schubert stopped chemo kisses, in spring
remission rose to the surface
one thousand times.
My father and I will argue about him
until one of us dies.
It’s not grief, it’s prospecting.
He drinks too much on Sunday nights and has mortifying accidents on ladders.
She avoids the dead wife who still sleeps in his bed.
Clive remains middle aged and unwealthy.
My lover is obliging;
he strides in the attire of a man in possession of his height.
He’s mortaring the dead footprints to keep them out of the bedroom.
and makes his own tea.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charmaine Thomson‘s poems have appeared in the 4th Floor Literary Journal, a fine line, Blackmail Press, Shot Glass Journal and The Fib Review. Her first collection of poems, Licorice, was published in 2012. She studied performance music in the past and is still addicted to Beethoven.