In the Garden Club Hut with Dad

Underarmed up onto
the bench beside you
pondering your
bad back, too much
flesh above my knees
I absorb the morning like
a dry seed.
You chat, easy with customers
most already friends
hand them smiles in
paper bags
forget the price of things.
I play Shop with the black iron
weighing scales, palming
the cold weights, testing the brass
bowls for honesty.
You hand me boiled sweets
tidy jars, curl twine,
lift the stink on the fish, blood and bone bin
to make us squirm, laughing.
I measure myself carefully
in scoops.



Marie Little lives near fields and writes in the shed. She has poetry featured in: Roi Fainéant, Full House Lit Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Honeyfire, Zero Readers and more. She also writes short fiction. Twitter @jamsaucer.