Powder Closet
Southside House, Wimbledon
Behind the tapestries, shut
in that cupboard of arsenic
pomade and lice, a boy
waits for horsehair perukes
and suet-greased wigs
to tilt back and dust.
No cone to protect his eyes,
his flourpuff lung.
What word does he whisper
to let them know it is done?
At what hour can he creep
back to the farm, white as a sheet?
This poem is from Ben's pamphlet, Judder Men, which was published by The Poetry Business on 1st April 2021. You can find it here.
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