Tune in the radio for news of the children!

 

Last night I slept on a soiled mattress

and woke as Mrs Somebody-or-Other

wearing this hat and second-hand clothing,

my throat filled with unfamiliar language;

a stuffed and bandaged museum exhibit,

temples throbbing to the boom-boom-boom.

 

This sausage no longer tastes of sausage

(they used to call me the open door).

Now all sorts enter this room without  knocking:

the stethoscope whisper, the bloody samples;

take seven from a hundred - what am I knitting?

Soup in the kitchen and poisoned apples -

how many cooks keep the doctor away?

 

Evenings we loll in an air-raid shelter;

tea and biscuits, Bingo on Saturday,

waiting for the humming to end or commence.

These dreams are not mine! Not mine

these teeth and breasts and dresses,

these spectacles that will not rest on my ears.

 

They should be home by now!