She didn't have a nickname at school;
Which says it all about her time there, I think.
But now she's the Black Widow of Kent.
My dad you see sends me clips
From the Gazette that
He thinks will interest me
(He's wrong - I hate thinking outside Zone 2).
The first time she married, it was a surprise;
A dying patient, she the nurse;
May-November wedding, a Barbara Cartland special.
I piled up my memories of her -
Beige -
And moved on.
The second wedding, and again
An older man, cancer, she
The Florence Nightingale, his
First family disapproving;
Made me go back, look up all
Her entries in my memory index.
A flash of her crying once behind the toilets;
And her eager, freckled face.
Marriage three, again and again
And my dad reported murmurings at the post office.
I facebooked a school friend, still in Kent,
Fat with babies and bloated hope
And she was vitriolic, vicious in a way
That reminded me how at school she'd slashed at her own arms
With a burning cigarette.
"That murderous bitch', she typed:
"Preying on old dying men, who
Should know better. PS Pregnant again."
I couldn't (could never) let it lie.
The conflict between those pudgy white cheeks
And this Joan Collins, Anna Nicole bit hard; and so
I contacted her direct.
Back in the faded grey of my home town
That has never recovered from Nazi bombs
We met for coffee
(I was surprised that they even HAD coffee shops there
Times Have Changed).
She was pasty still; the same
Nervous smile. Husband five had just died;
Black suited her.
We talked, she chattered, the time was up;
Now or never - 'What happens?' I asked.
She looked at me helpless. And then, as I left
"It's so good to actually have something to feel sad about"
She said.
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