" hey, grondelski " __ 006 __ the big kid's canto

\ The Big Kid’s Canto \

/ An Isosceles Of Flank /

You’re a mother, I know,

which is perhaps why I want you to hold me

to rest my head on

your very full breasts

be told to ‘pull myself together’

to have my hair stroked

to snaffle the stench of

nicotine and body spray

to pour me out a glass

and talk me into the darkness.

I was aroused when I saw that triangle of

your tan skin on the rooftop terrace

where your blouse rode up

and your jeans rode down

while you smoked and I drank

such a view of the castle!

and when I left to catch the last bus

I waited outside the ladies for you

in the sterile stairwell of the grimly clad

brutalist office block they never demolished

the smell of toner cartridges and Lynx and turkey

and jus and dry shampoo and detergent

where in festive flirtation drunk strangers

patted my beard like the acolytes

to my dumb prophet

the wisdom of five pints

the wisdom of the urinal

I waited so I could hold you and mumble goodbye,

for though you are bigoted by tradition

and of a cloth unrecognisable

to the cloth I have myself nurtured

you’re right for me

I feel a desperate love which –

let’s be honest –

is but boredom made flesh

and though I love the idea of love

I cannot for a moment imagine

the reality of the act of so doing.