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Fear of Letter Boxes
She listens all morning for the letter box’s warning
that causes her pen to skid across a page.
Careers downstairs scanning the door mat,
gingerly pokes a pile of junk mail where buff
envelopes often lurk like adders under compost.
Opens as if defusing a bomb.
Hospital appointments are welcome as negative test results.
Shreds Reader’s Digest’s practical joke.
Down grading her fear to code orange at a drift of white letters,
knows even these are not always innocent as they appear.
Sometimes, the friendly face of familiar handwriting
or an invitation surprising as a modest lottery win.
Still no ‘all clear’ by 12 o’ clock,
she peeps from curtains,
catching the post man passing her gate,
exhales as if missed out of a house to house search.
Sundays, strikes and snow, she is a school kid
whose bully has been excluded for a few days.
Lucky Streak
You divine the fortunes of each horse
like a sorcerer and his almanac whilst
I play hand bag top trumps with passing
women. At the bookies window I avert
my eyes from your stake in pin number
etiquette. Place a pound each way on a
name that takes my fancy. The winnings
rain coins like a slot machine payout.
By the third race you regard me as if
Satan is my tipster. ‘Pick another’,
I close my eyes and jab at the heraldry
of jockeys’ silks. While men in bespoke
suits and women in Chanel bray, we watch
with sniper coolness as my horse glides
to victory. You urge me to ride my luck
but I am still expecting it to run dry.
Nevertheless, leave carrying a bag ripe
with cash. Silence on the drive home as
you calculate the various odds that
fantastic as light years, I have defied this
afternoon. I ignore your parting plea to
‘play the lottery this once’. Now a suspicion
that my life’s allocation of good fortune
paid out in a single dividend that day.
Fiona Sinclair
Email: Fiona Sinclair
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