Writing From The Margins

Her skin was a greasy grey fungus.

Yet Mrs Foster wore a sugary pink jumper.

Like an airy plump cake stuck atop a lumpy psychotic Iceberg.

A tyrannical middle-aged Tiger Shark of an iceberg.

All the children wondered, clinging to their desks jut to make it to lunchtime.

Why would a rhino wear a lamb’s hide?

Perhaps she had eaten one.

Or more likely both.

Or seven hundred.

From the bottom up.

And forgotten to remove the skin.

Walking

on a hot summer day

a day like any other one

On the way I encounter

old women and men

sheltered from the sun

Some women wear black

nothing but black

for the rest of their lives

They’re grieving widows, you see

As a child, a silly thought

occurred to me:

Do they wear black underwear, too?

Do aprons count?

Walking

down to the bakery

The whole street smells

of freshly baked bread

Instant happiness

A quick transaction later

I stand outside

with a warm loaf of bread

in a paper bag

looking

into the sunshine

feeling

the hot sun on my face

hearing

cicadas buzzing

quiet

A soft breeze runs through

my hair

Life

is truly perfect here.