Extra Mile

By Helen Anderson

She always appears from the left,
nudging her nose past next-door’s hedge
like a long-distance runner edging over the line.
Sometimes, there is a dash, depending on
how her people have been and whether
she shaved off seconds at her last place.

She always chatters away into thin air,
checking in with invisible friends, 
or offloading onto herself.
Her hair is a rainbow, slicked from her face -
held in its contractually agreed place
by thrown away bands.

She always clutches a carrier bag
by its scrunched-up, straining neck,
preventing her people’s pills and treats from
spilling all over our spotless, semi-detached street.
Her disposable-facemask-blue tunic oozes
ointment-white piping at its notch lapel.

This uniform is a gift – a perky, free thankyou
just for being good old, awesome her.
If she quits, she is obliged to give it back.
It will be scrutinised for wear and tear.
It is meant to be Easy Care but the 
deepest creases never drip-dry out.

She always yanks its vented hem right down
over her business-black trousers’ bum, as if 
a child is skipping in her shadow. As if
someone can really see her.
She is always whisked away out of my frame 
by her sensible, slip-on, stay-on shoes.

That man in that big house - whose name
I don’t know – with that tree - whose name
I don’t know – will be waiting.
I always watch out for her going back home 
and she never does and, all the same,
here she is again.

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Written Word ‘Heart’ poems