She fretted from the day she heard,
he could make time to come again,
for Christmas, what a joy, oh my
the cupboards are a mess, there's dust
and funny odours have besieged the drapes,
don't get the no-frill stuff, it must be real,
brand name like windex, that will do.
The filthy carpet, it's those dogs of course,
they'll need a hydrobath the day before.
Perhaps the early morning hours, four to five
would let her weed and pluck the stubborn clover
from the front lawn, he'll spot the holes for sure!
'It is your son', he said, 'he'll like it as it is',
'you'll run yourself and all the kids to ragged town.'
She did agree but pointed out that he would fly
first class, all pampered in the kangaroo with wings
and surely would expect at least five stars.
New sheets, two feather pillows, fix the door,
that stupid stopper has come loose just like last year.
He waited for his meals, for weeks on end,
while preaching calm and common sense to deafened ears.
There was that new Merlot, they'd marked it down,
his cabinet exhibited the logic of old age,
Potato Vodka, just reserves, stood left, in front,
(acute supplies were always frozen cold and stiff) ,
then there stood Gordon, yellow label and his Jack,
Stolichnaya and Uncle Jaegermeister, all in green,
so that should cover it, though who could know about
the changing tastes of growing sons from USA,
perhaps the beer, from dark Paulaner to Vee Bee,
James Boag, even Kilkenny's, Cooper's Ale,
would be found lacking, he must think to be prepared.
And, for the bloomin' life of Riley, cannot understand
how she will fret for days on end. No, that's not me.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-favourite-visitor/
