Life Is Not A Disney
At fourteen I had pimples, glasses
and a crush on the soccer captain
blond god. Thats the formula.
Heres the twist: he limped home
from a game one Saturday,
complained of pain in his calves,
lay down on the sofa and closed
his eyes. Picture the scene:
how his boots dropped from his hands,
blunt studs muddying the carpet,
his mom scolding, even as she scooped
them up and joined them heel to heel
in her neat closet, where they stood
with the pale brown earth clinging
to each disused toe, silent
through the furor of sirens
and sobbing relatives - a perfect end
shot for a gritty art movie.
My skin waxened against black,
and the plot never got past that
dead boy, sad girl, hard winter.
If you've any comments about this poem, Anna Evans would be pleased to hear from you.