poems by owen lucas

Mum lunges around the table,
ballpoint like a rapier skewers
bits of paper, folders, post-its
pink and yellow she peels off
and covers neatly, tapping
out curled black characters.
Dad treads in, rubber soles
cautious on the cherry wood
softly clump. He slow-motion
places his white coffee mug.

Her sweatered arms skit
above the big brown table,
brusque efficient gestures,
files in stacks shoved away,
laptop type-touched, digits
on her veiny hands working.
Pale white computer glow
shows shadows on her brow,
her lips purse, she shuts
the screen with a snap.

Tut. Dad looks slowly up.
She starts her monologue,
biro pinning down problems,
wispy hair swaying slightly,
her voice becoming strained
over the bits that really rile,
rising sarcastically then
lowing in regretful troughs.

Among sheep and pedants
at a parochial little school,
it sometimes gets her goat
that she's made a martyr
for the good sense issuing
from her good witch throat.