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| Photo credit with thanks: Kaboompics .com from Pexels |
I still can’t bear
To wear wool
Next to my skin.
Thanks for that,
Family holiday
Fifty years gone.
A draughty caravan.
The east coast cliffs.
My new white woolly
Jumper with the roll neck
That nearly pulled off
My ears, dragging it
Over my head.
My occipital bone
Would emerge with a pop.
The hand-me-down sweater
Had shrunk in the wash
Squidging my puppy fat
In its greasy cable-pattern
Straitjacket.
Whooping cough
Mixed with pitch-and-putt,
Primrose Puffer,
Smell of rockpool.
My chest disembodied
With hot racking peffs.
Tinned vegetable soup,
Comfort food
That brought no comfort.
I suppose the vomiting
Was already written
In the stars and salty
Tide-charts.
Anyway, it happened.
Suddenly.
The arm of my woolly
Wasn’t quite so white, now.
Fever made the memory,
The touch of wool, distort
Into a nightmare loop,
Stiff itchy filaments
Squeezing my soreness
Rubbing me raw
With every rasp
Tickling, tingling,
Pinching.
At a party,
Under the table
I ate too many
Of those controversial
Chocolate dunkables
Sponge and hidden
Orange jelliness.
Cake or biscuit?
I had to be sure!
Greed not pertussis
My nemesis this time,
Again I was sick.
It only put me off
For a half a day.
If that.
(But still I won’t wear wool.)
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