I happily sat on the bus yesterday
I was holding my purse as I wanted to pay
when a lady sat down on the seat next to me
she was showing some cleavage and plenty of knee

“I see that you’re pregnant” she said with a smile
“I have a large family; its very worthwhile
I have four perfect boys and I’m terribly proud
although when they’re together, it seems like a crowd

The eldest is eighteen and his name is Clyde
I don’t see him that often, he’s banged up Inside
He knobbled the gas man and raided the meter
I don’t think he did it - I think it was Peter

Peter’s thirteen; he sleeps all through the day
He stays out all night; I can’t get him to stay
his hobby is collecting, the police call it stealing
he’s just lost his case but our lawyer’s appealing

My youngest is Wayne; he hates being ignored
so he climbed up the top of the school diving board
he pulled down his trousers and piddled from height
his aim was so good, he’s incredibly bright.

My Liam is ten, he adores wheels and tyres
and the smell of them burn as he lights all his fires
He torched an old car but he’s always denied
that he knew that the man was still sitting inside

She stood up abruptly “well I have to dash”
and before I looked round she was gone in flash
She jumped off that bus and her feet fairly flew
and when I looked down saw my purse had gone too.

© Jan Jack 2006

When I was quite small Gran kept sweets in a drawer
Tucked in the cupboard, right next to the door
And on the top shelf stood a photo of me
taken when I was perhaps two, maybe three

She would re-tie my ribbon and smooth my blonde curls
and say to me “Clare, you’re the luckiest of girls”
and I knew it was true, for I might have no Mum
but I always had Gran; she was warmth, she was fun

She’d put on her apron, light blue with pink flowers,
we’d stand in the kitchen and spend several hours
making tarts with thick treacle, warm, sticky and gold
which we’d eat the same day when the filling was cold

When I couldn’t play out and the weather was wet
She would talk about Grandad and how they first met
I had no recollection of him, none at all,
just the grey peeling photograph, hung on the wall

When I was fifteen, she would “tut” in despair
at my tight fitting clothes and my pink tinted hair
And when I went out on my very first date
She sat in the window, eyes fixed on the gate

She’d look over her glasses; become somewhat vexed
as she warned of the perils of unmarried sex
with wayward young boys who would lead you astray
and once you’d succumbed, would just go on their way.

At nineteen I came home with my new boyfriend Paul
And Gran, of course said, “I don’t like him at all”
But as time went on by he would coax her and tease
and gradually Gran became far more at ease

The day we got wed, she was surrogate “Dad”
She was all that I wanted and all that I had
As I swept down the aisle, with my rose pink bouquet
At the grand age of sixty, she gave me away

Now twenty years later I take her some flowers
I sit by her bed, and I stay several hours
I lean forward with care and I gently kiss her
I tell her I love her, and tell her I miss her

But her sweet smile is vacant, her eyes dim and sad
the memory is gone, of those good times we had
and she’ll peer in my eyes and she’ll wince and she’ll stare
I say “Grandma, remember, it’s me, it’s your Clare”

It sits on her dresser that photo of me
taken when I was perhaps two, maybe three
she’ll pick up the photo, she’ll cradle the frame
and her tears gently fall, as she whispers my name.

© Jan Jack 2007