poems by owen lucas

Parents watching tv.
Two cushions each,
plump behind spines
tired from work.
All that pointing.
Their arms crossed,
their feet crossed,
identically, winered
poufée props brown
brogues, and her
small grey slippers.
She's in badly coloured
jumper and jeans,
ponytail, earrings.
He, turquoise fleece
and dirtgrey Rohans,
round rimmed glasses,
grey half hair head.
At her left elbow
dregs of Chateau.
She takes the stem
thumb and finger,
sticks her schnozz
inside the glass
and sips the last.