Читать книгу Just Where You Left It... and Other Poems - David Roche - Страница 7

“Mum, I can’t find my shin pads and it’s football today.

It’s the 3rds v St Wotsits and we’re playing away.

They’ve got that big bruiser who plays at the back.

Where the hell are my shin pads? He is prone to hack.”

“They’re just where you left them. Why’s your memory so poor?

Right under the radiator by the back door.”

“Mum, I can’t find my door key, I think it’s been stolen.

Or maybe it fell from my pocket with the hole in.

So it is partly your fault. Can you get me another?

You did it for Daniel, and he’s my big brother.”

“Conspiracy theory is not a bad call,

But it’s right where you left it, on the tray in the hall.”

“Mum, I can’t find my biro, and it’s not ‘where I left it’.

I used it for homework so don’t even suggest it.

I left it right here so you must have moved it.

It’s your fault, it’s obvious, and ha!, I’ve just proved it.”

“You’ve got me. I’m guilty. Arrest me. But wait…

What’s that, where you left it, right under your plate?”

So how do mums do that? They have a sixth sense

For locating my iPhone or an old fifty pence.

It’s the same for our dad too. If he needs the remote,

He just asks our mum and it’s Murder She Wrote…

“If you got off your backside and looked under the couch,

It’s there, where you left it, now mow the lawn.” Ouch.

There must be a cheat way that mums win our deference.

They hide stuff, and map it, then learn the grid reference.

They memorise items and their hidden location,

Then have all the answers, like it’s their vocation.

“That’s right, you believe that while you’re all away,

We’re just where you left us, doing nothing all day.”