Meg Cox





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

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.

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