I guess I should have known when we didn’t even have enough leftover wallpaper to cover my jotters, that we were living near or on the breadline. And when I had to turn a v neck into a crew neck to go to the school disco, when fashion changed, alarms bells should have rung but then again I was a child..

Living in poverty is wrong when big corporates are constantly ducking and diving and avoiding paying their share of societies needs. The model of letting the plebs pay needs addressed. Think banks, think austerity, think about the pandemic. Who pays, what’s the inevitable outcome?

I present Mrs McGlinchey at the end of your street.

At the end of your street

Look close enough, there’s been a Mrs McGlinchey, in most peoples life, yer doctor, my own, yer lawyer,  yer wife.

In fact, since the 60s and 70s she’s in that street there and that street there, 50 yards from support and about a feckin inch from despair.

Literally squashing square sausage wae the back of a fork, to spread it out, to feed 4 instead of 3, and taste like best pork.

Peering an extra tattie, to stretch out last nights tea, trying her best for her wains, as that’s awe she can see.

Adding mare slices of plain bread, cause she can’t afford meat, aye there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of our street.

Look long enough, there’s Mrs McGlinchey, just over there, 50 yards from support and about an inch from despair.

Wrapped around a hand-me-down gas heater, which couldnae melt a cube of ice, can’t afford the leccy, whatever the price.

Just put an extra jumper on, put aff that feckin light, haw maw ma jammies don’t fit, ma troosers are too tight

Wearing your brothers shoes, 2 sizes too big, stick on the jumper he wore to the last Bay City Rollers gig.

Just another day trying to make ends meet, aye there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of my street.

Look hard enough, third generation Mrs McGlinchey is just at the stairs, has it always been unbalanced, unjust and unfair?

Apparently privileged, universally so, but for 60 years, Mrs McGlinchey has been behind the same door.

No one is knocking that door down, to be her saviour, age after age of the same and inhumane behaviour.

Participation poverty, but to participate in whit, there’s enough to go round, if society will admit.

Like every parent Mrs McGlinchey tries to stand on her own two feet, there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of this street.

For half a century and more Mrs McGlinchey is in that street there, 50 yards from support and about an inch from despair.

Now her accent may have changed, might be a bit taller, might be less tartan, but similar squaller.

Cultures may differ, and the skin tone may alter, whatever the bent, we, aye us, continue to falter

Might be kilometres away from help, and millimetres from pain, but she’ll still be a mother, they’ll still be her wains

So despite our inertia, trying to make her obsolete, there’s still a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of your street.

Poetcast ⬇️

R G Robb © 2021

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R G Robb © 2021