Counting Cotton

I can tell time passed
by the reduction
of the contents
of the bumper pack
of cotton buds,

that one in the cupboard,
below our sink,
its product packed
so thick that patience
is needed to tug one out.

When that count is half-done
will we be half-emptied . . .

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Gran

Dad has a suit for the funeral,
and time for a balcony fag,
as the middle kid kicks a ball,
playing alone, 'cos dad is sad'

Mum is moaning in the kitchen,
'stuck here until I die,'
and the youngest girl sobs quietly,
for the truth . . .

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