Riboflavin

Village life is peachy, no?
Every driveway a kingdom,
every latch, gate, porch,
or set of steps a curlicue
emblazoned, cack-handed
on a coat of arms.
Your ever loyal subjects?
Potted plants. Your mount?
Sit down lawnmower, baby.
Ride that in circles Sunday,
watch the geraniums die,
the neighbour's conifers spread
like imperial Russia until
they blot out the sun,
watch Bob McJog run
with his wife alongside
screaming from a Land Rover.
The great dane breeder
from number twenty four
goes behind your back
with your Black & Decker.
Your organic milk is sour;
you are a curd yourself.

The wife has joined
the parish council board
from which she'll lead
a horticultural revolution,
finally renouncing you
in favour of asceticism;
she will become a hydrangea.
You prune her daily
as you limply sip your coffee,
then tinker in the garage
until you stop and realise
your underwear needs ironing,
your toenails are getting long,
you didn't eat your five a day.
You didn't get your vitamins.
You didn't get your bran.
Your hair is getting thin.
And what if Fairtrade
isn't fair? Can you trust
the National Trust? What
about your tax returns?
What about the drive?
There are weeds coming
up through the cracks.

You start pulling the crazy
"oh dear God help me" face
as relaxation, gurning
like an emasculated gargoyle
every time your children
turn their backs.
They will find you, one day,
by the kettle, silently
punching yourself in the face.