Mrs Fiddleby’s Child
I cannot help but notice that the postmistress
is a strewn-about woman, and that her posey-
print frock has an open seam railed together
with hapless cross of stitch. Her bosom shows
an open lattice you’d expect to see scrambling
with clematis on a sunny day. I find myself
obliged not to notice this. My attention draws
to a frayed child of tumbledown nature pulling
up level from below a letter-littered desk, there
a small girl with a lump of pink chewing gum
gristling her hair. I force to diversion, and ask
after my mail, and the purchase of ten stamps.
And ice cubes, I suggest, for removing that gum.
“Found” text remixed from “Bleak House” and
recollections from my diary of January 1991,