A Life Well Lived

It’s fine. It always was, because I’m able to keep going.
I can eat and breathe and I’ve taken up an interest in sewing.
We had kids, didn’t we?
And a life and a home and so on.
And hobbies and friends and things
which I, at first, assumed were gone.
We raised them right, we raised them good, and we grew up with each other.
And we were a happy family. Mother. Father. Sister. Brother.
I’m glad I met you, and lived with you, and loved you my whole life.
I remember our marriage vows, when we became husband and wife.
Their first days at school, holidays by the pool,
the everyday minutiae of our lives.
We lived, didn’t we? And we both grew old. Our kids had their own lives.
They had their own partners. Their own husbands, their own wives.
I think we were, or though not sure, maybe that was all inside.
The feelings and fictitious things that I can’t help but hide.
Maybe you weren’t with me, and maybe you went elsewhere.
I’m old now, I have nothing, and my life is all laid bare.
I can’t remember things, I walk around, I get lost around the town.
But if I was never with you, then I regret every time I’m found.
We have no kids, you aren’t my wife. This was all inside my head.
I’m going, I’m passing, I’m ninety seven, and now I’ll soon be dead.
I cannot see anyone, my focus and my eyesight soon grows dim.
And with final breath I’ll tell the world,
I loved you more than him.

Bread and Circuses

The nice man on the TV,
the kind person in the ad,
is telling you that equity release,
couldn’t possibly go bad.
The sweet employer can’t give you a pension,
but assigns you a Perkbox.
Smiles from a friendly face,
but in the dark you’re mocked.
The lovely landlord tells you that
the gas meters are built that way.
And you don’t have any references,
so with him, of course, you’ll stay.
And there are no longer people
that have courage in their rooms.
Forget all the mansions, barely space,
can’t even push a broom.
The friendly manager tells you
that you need a shot to stay.
And if you don’t, for other’s sakes,
your job will go away.


This is an excerpt from Charlie Chitty’s new poetry chapbook, Throwing Dead Pigeons Into Oncoming Traffic, coming soon from Terror House Press.