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Poem by Mary Hobson
I found my way to Siberia in search of a friend that IТd lost. The journey could not have been drearier and I donТt like to mention the cost. At the risk of contracting listeria I sampled the in-flight meal, broke my fork on the bony exterior of a cutlet which claimed to be veal. The red wine was Bordeaux Superior. To what, they neglected to say. But I drank it all up and felt cheerier. By now I was well on my way. My welcome was scarcely inferior to that of the prodigal son. As the toasts became steadily beerier I downed several vodkas in one. Two weeks later, though colder and wearier, I thought, as I made for the plane, with a laugh that was close to hysteria, it was great. I shall do it again.
27th January, 2001
Mary Hobson's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org