Cold Feet
Alas, I know my coward soul too well
and, metaphorically, its feet grow cold
just thinking of the existential hell
that’s dentists, needles, flying, growing old.
Fear brings the tyranny of icy chill.
I feel it from my scalp down to my toes
or so it seems. It’s metaphor, but still
I shiver as the trepidation grows.
There are no bed-socks that can bring relief—
unlike the pair that warm my literal feet.
Summers (to them) are short and far too brief
so nine months wrapped in cashmere keeps them sweet.
Physical chill is easier to cure.
The inner cold’s relentless, sharp and sure.
Only One Way
I want to say … No, that’s too strong a start.
I ought … No, obligation won’t cut through.
You need to know … That needs a touch more art.
Have you considered … Questioning might do.
Delivering bad news is never easy.
Does cotton-wool and padding make it worse?
Maybe you might … But that’s a trifle queasy.
Why don’t you … No, that’s critical, too terse.
Perhaps … That’s better, but too cautious, so
What if you … A solution: that might work
but is there time to say it sweet and slow?
Remember how he tends to go berserk?
Sometimes there’s nowhere left to hide, or stray
through verbal byways, tactfully, or skirt
around the issue. Make it clear. Just say:
Please! Bin it! That’s a truly dreadful shirt!
“Cold Feet” first appeared in The Oldie