I’d been drowning for years in an ocean of people
who simply pretend
that they fight and defend,
an ocean unruffled by wave or by ripple,
as blasts of hot air
blew me nowhere.
But then you appeared, like a chain-smoking dolphin,
with no prissy qualms,
in my best friend’s arms,
draped in a rainbow and razored and elfin
and, waiting no more,
you both dragged me ashore.
And Bridget stood seething.
Turning her back in her glittery hat,
she said, “I’m seeing but not believing.
She’s disaster on tap, get her out of my flat!”
While others demanded their right to do nothing,
their right to not care
or listen, be fair
or treat other humans like beings worth loving,
you stared in my eyes
with no hint of disguise
and, running my flag up your pole like a colonel,
you marched through my land
saying “I understand.”
Some evenings were manic and some were hormonal
and laptops were thrown
as resentments were shown.
And Bridget stood glowering.
Turning her back in her glittery hat,
she said, “This girl’s disempowering.
She’s disaster on tap, get her out of my flat!”
The day of the bonfire we built in our garden
you brandished a spade
in the midsummer shade
as you smashed up a cabinet while your bare bottom
glinted away
in the clear light of day.
Your bum was a permanent source of amusement
as, pantsless, you flounced
your way round the house.
Now I ponder each day with a sullen bemusement,
no women or men
will see your bum again.
And Bridget stood deflated.
“I’m so sorry,” she said with a shake of her head,
because you were cremated
as atop your head sat Bridget’s glittery hat.
