Sunday, 7 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 082

Hair Dye

The lady from 84 has dyed her hair
in deference to the abuse she gets from 82
and the miserable git from 86 with whom
she has a shared access. They all got on
while she was a single mum but now
her marriage to a lovely bloke
has conjured passive aggressive actions
for playing football in the garden.
That's my fence you're kicking the ball against
and she calls the police to arrest the eight year old
who lost three footballs already
(the neighbours won't give them back).
I wish her a cheery good morning and briefly
fantasise about buying a semi-automatic
(easy on the black market, you know)
and making her life easier.
I dismiss the thought. My police-officer
martial arts instructor would not approve.
Besides, I won't even kill flies or wasps
(though I have no sympathy for pigeons)
and Mr Miserable and Mrs Moaner are
more important than blow flies. Just.
Maybe I'll save the act for when I'm dying
and request a secure hospital room
while my rotting heart fibrillates.
I wave goodbye and walk past, two dogs pulling
and the old, old dog dragging so much I pick him up
and carry him for thirty yards.
The youngest has a shit and I stop to encase it
in a plastic bag from a roll in my pocket.
Someone else has done the same but unlike me,
they left the bag behind.
Gawd knows what they think happens to it then.
I pick up theirs as well, deposit all of them
in a bin on the cemetery where the blackberries
look ripe until I try one and spit it out.

© Rachel Green 2016

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