Monday, 16 May 2011

The Dispute, Donnybrook, Dustup

Monday 16th May 2011, A. Palmer


“Nefarious”.
That was just the first
of many slurs slung my way
like lexical dinner plates.
“Parsimonious” struck the door frame.
“Clandestine” knocked her grandmother’s
St Albans mug from its shelf.
“Laconic” caught my elbow.

Fury always brought her most impressive
vocabularic cannons out, almost as if
part of her battle strategy
to coerce me into eating humble pie
saw her first swallowing
(or consuming, devouring, ingesting)
a thesaurus.

It was only when she paused
to reload, or put
hand to head and begin to sob-
dreadful, delicate, defeated tears-,
did I offer a word of my own.

Sorry.


3 comments:

  1. There is no more powerful word in the lexicon than "sorry." Good poem, Arron.

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  2. Thank you, Glynn. And you're certainly right, though it can not half seem like a little too late at times. Thanks for the consistent mentions and RTs too over at Twitter, always most appreciated, even if, given the time zones, I don't always catch you to thank you at the time!

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  3. Much enjoyed! Made me both wince and grin.

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