Meg Cox

 

 

 

Mismatch

I was only the French Maid now and again
in a little black dress, stockings and duster.
She was ‘Brigitte’ and I couldn’t do the accent.
I’d have liked to be Ursula Undress with a knife
or any Bond girl with an exciting name
like Trigger or Vesper or Solitaire,
but I was Miss Jones instead, twinset and pearls
and glasses to remove, revealing my beauty,
Miss Jones I had no idea…
She was easier, although I wasn’t convincing
apparently.

But now I can take part with my eyes shut.
He and I can be doctor and patient –
me lying in bed in a hospital gown and a coma
(dreaming of Dirk) and he Sir Lancelot Spratt
come on his rounds to give me a poke.
And that almost suits us both.

 

 

Meg Cox is new to writing poetry but not to reading it – she’s getting on a bit.  She lives in Herefordshire, alone with her dogs and a garden and a view but she promises not to write about them and would rather live in London.

4 comments

  1. Robert Nisbet

    I enjoyed this very much. Meg. What a nice line in wry humour!

  2. I like this one, Meg. Not bad at all, in fact. Not “politically correct” — but that’s ok. Too much of the world is, among the cognoscenti. Genuine writing comes in unpredictable clothes.

    • Meg Cox

      Thank you very much James. I’m not sure why my poem is not pc, not that I would mind, as you say.

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