Nothing Much

Nothing Much

And in the morning
always the sea gulls arguing,
tearing flesh away from each other's
breakfast prey. The waiting woman
wears her polar bear pjs,
fondles a second cup of warm
blood. Letting her teeth
touch, she tongues the metallic
leftovers of another night of grinding.
Where's the respite? A storm
tramples in across the harbour,
the woman leans over
to wind the window closed.
In the sudden quiet Beethoven
wings down from the attic,
a red LP on the player
and a daughter, head covered
in mottled down,
already mobile. "Nothing
much. Nothing much."
The daughter sings
as she leaves for school.
What's going on
in your life? The waiting woman
turns on the radio, puts more blood
on to boil, winds the window
open and again the gulls
bicker, the storm grumbles.
Four words left unfilled
in her crossword puzzle:
A fool, a human head,
to flatten, and having the characteristic
of metal—