The three Wicked Little Letters branded on me by Gen Z: OAP
Still years away from a pension, poet and artist Frieda Hughes finds herself unfairly painted by an ageist brush
WICKED LITTLE LETTERS
My left leg will not be operated on until May, unless someone drops out
Or falls over. So, the week was a curate’s egg, waiting for Easter,
Containing a man I’ve never met whose letters were the thrown stones
Over which he hoped I would stumble, and a woman in chaos
Whose emails created a ripple effect that lapped at my boots
So I stepped sideways. Some days were like garden furniture
Tossed into the path of oncoming traffic.
I checked uneaten mouse bait, stain-blocked a kitchen ceiling
That I will never cook beneath, and painted two abstracts
That illustrated my inner workings in undoing
Whatever needs to be undone in order to move on.
I drove more London miles in a day than I would want to travel
In any month for dinner with a friend. She reminded me
That I was not yet the OAP as seen by the girl child
Selling tickets at the cinema, when she asked
“Any concessions?” Still three years from a pension
I took my full-price seat for Wicked Little Letters
Among a demographic that would nail me to its notice board
As an unmistakeable member of a club that is fast heading
Into the hereafter, swinging handbags and laughing.