After a short stay with us Mum went home today. The long way. Her preference for bus rides made me wonder, when not wondering I noted street names.

Looking at Her body, what there is of it, brought forth tears, not inside, but outside, in the heavy rain. Stinging like wasps they ruined my eyes. But weren't noticed.

My insides were outside as she stumbled by the potted plants in Marks and Spencers. Security guard kind and smiley.
Stung again.

Respite in Chris's shop where the good Catholic lady, all heart and puffed hair, let me take a handbag for less than the marked price.
She also gave us a Burberry umbrella.
Outside mum couldn't walk.
Wasp stings again.

Our trek back to her place was hard, rain and wind and feeling like foreigners in our own country but I felt only love for everyone, except the smug fat rich who were alive and plump with gin and cake. Them I despised. Not for their heavy bags but for their pulsing hearts.

Mum couldn't make it without stopping every yard. I laughed and told her to go on. "Nearly there" I said as another slippery slope appeared.

This is hurting.

I can't say much about the fish and chip lunch except that it cost a lot and that mum didn't care.

We both bought books. Hers a biography of Rita Hayworth, mine 'Staying Alive' real poems for unreal times edited by Neil Astley and signed by him.

Apt.

As I got out of the train tonight my insides were back inside and I opened my mouth to drink in the rain.