Miss McCarthy by the window,
with a glass of Cork Dry gin,
watching as a band comes marching
making a god-awful din.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.
Miss McCarthy, fifty-seven,
rounded shoulders, spreading hips,
smudged red lipstick, cupid-bow style
to accentuate her lips,
watches with a smile, sardonic,
drinking neat gin without tonic.
In the gloomy first-floor bedroom
(in which, once, her parents slept)
on a sun-bright summer morning
she sways gently, hair unkempt,
cursing life that, once abundant,
left her here washed-up, redundant.
Tired old bra beneath her cardie,
saggy breasts hang down like fruit,
wrinkled buttocks heading southwards,
all the rest in hot pursuit.
Miss McCarthy, lonely, boozy:
when it came to love, too choosy.
In the street, beneath her window,
children frolic with a pup.
She’s been here for half a lifetime,
waiting, but Life stood her up.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.
Richard Fleming
