Hello and welcome to Day FOUR of your life.
I often like to listen in to other people's conversations when I'm on the bus and such like and today's poem is based on a little conversation I overheard. I've elaborated on most (all) of it. I was going to write a longer introduction, but Casualty is on now, so that's IT.
“I’ve seen a lot of things,”
said the girl on the bus,
talking to her girlfriends.
“Too many things
as far as most people are concerned.
I once saw a wasp stinging a pig’s teat.
It was poignant,
but I got over it.
I come from good stock.
I’ll not be sent out as glue.”
The bus was clear, light.
It was filled with summer endings,
there was a scent of Soltan factor 5.
“When I get married,
I want everything to reek of perfection.
If anyone spoils it,
I will have them slaughtered;
brutally and immediately.”
Their bags were stuffed
with bridal accoutrements.
When one of the friends
reached up and scratched her arm,
the other said, “Don’t do that,
you’ll ruin yourself before my big day.”
“And another thing,” she continued.
“If you wear a yellow dress
with a white cardigan,
you’ll look like a child.
I don’t want you to look like a child
when I get married;
that would be ridiculous,” she said,
painting fast food icons
onto her fingernails.
“This wedding should be like a Range Rover:
as unnecessarily large as possible.
I want this wedding
to make us look small and insignificant,
so we can grow together
throughout the marriage.”
She held out her hand
and admired her artistry.
“I’ve stared at other people’s food
for a long time.
Somehow it doesn’t seem real
unless I’m the one eating it.
That’s how I know,
I’ll make the perfect wife.”
When they got off the bus,
they left the day behind, the sun dipping
under the Earth’s eyelid,
into the strange milk of twilight.