Monday, 8 August 2016

poetry 2016 / 083

Maybe That's Why

I drove too hard along the dirt roads
of my youth, too fast around the corners,
narrowly avoiding oncoming vehicles
(they all snarled at the uninvited.)
I was unpopular, Asperger's even then
though it wasn't a term I'd own to. I took
things literally. Drop in anytime
would see me knocking on the door at 3AM
waking a household because I'd had an idea
I wanted to discuss with someone
or else I'd run out of milk for my tea.
I borrowed other people's tapes from unlocked studios,
listen to them over and over, replace them
in the hours when even brushes cried.
Painting went on by day, by night,
wherever I was (though my flatshares weren't keen
on the twelve foot canvas in the kitchen).
We used to keep the door locked
else the dealers would barge in and steal from us at knifepoint.
Heathtown in the Eighties. A no-go zone
for the police unless they wanted to play dodge-the-brick
thrown from the fourth floor balconies.
A dalliance with a married woman left me
despised by her grown-up kids (older than me)
though I exhibited the nudes I did of her often.


© Rachel Green 2016



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2 comments:

Stephanie Wright said...

<3 this so much.

We're all in search of our explanations. Maybe.

Whatever the reason, I'm so grateful you're you.

Rachel Green said...

Thank you kindly.
I think your confessionals are rubbing off on me.