Written for the Writing Club prompt of ‘iron’.
I iron creases from a shirt and think about my skin:
You see it creped and wrinkled; you don’t see what’s within.
You see my shoulders rounded; you see my face is red;
But you’ve got no idea what’s going on inside my head…
I don’t want to do the ironing, wash the curtains or make jam;
I want to grab the world’s lapels and tell it who I am.
I don’t want to dust and hoover; I don’t want to clean the loo;
I want to swim with dolphins and take trips to Kathmandu.
I don’t want to watch those quiz shows from a rise and recline chair;
I want to go to festivals with multi-coloured hair.
I don’t want to go on day trips; I don’t want to mow the lawn;
I want to drive a jet ski and climb the Matterhorn.
I want to learn to windsurf, have a band and sail a yacht;
Don’t want somebody telling me my eyesight’s gone to pot.
I don’t want to go to garden centres viewing shrubs and trees;
I want to run through forests; skinny-dip in turquoise seas.
I don’t want to wash the windows; I don’t want to keep things neat;
I want to dance on tables with no corns upon my feet.
Don’t want to wear wide-fitting shoes with Velcro straps – that’s right,
I want to wear stilettos – give myself some extra height.
I want to show my shapely calves; wear skirts above the knee;
I want to hoick my bust up so it’s back where it should be.
I want to go to restaurants for breakfast, dinner, tea;
I want to go an hour and half without needing a wee.
The tragedy of ageing is: inside each OAP
Is a lively, eager twenty-something raging to break free.
Carol Carman