What are you up to tomorrow?
I am already spoken for, but,
could always be led astray by
naughtiest girl in the school mischief.
She is off to Whitstable, on a shop lifting binge
I windscreen wiper shake my head envisioning
local rag’s gloating headline
Retired teacher caught.
She was coached by a savvy cousin,
who supplements own meagre benefits
with four fingered discounts,
using toddler’s buggy as poacher’s pockets.
Disability has given her the perfect cover with
arms delicate as sea horse wings, poppet stature.
So, wearing a larger bra, she stuffs mascara, deodorant
to create an instant push up.
Doesn’t do it for the stuff though,
but the heart race as she cases for CCTV,
high of using teeth, deft as a mouth artist,
to pop tags with tool bought off eBay,
euphoria clearing store with swag.
Has her standards though; never hits independent shops
but shrugged: They can wear it, Primark, Tesco …
Now no amount of ciggies or coffee will cure
her pacing need to shoplift-score again.
If gets caught, has contingency tears
she will work like a silent movie heroine.
Trumping store’s accusations with her mental health card.
Because after a lifetime the object
of bold stares, impudent questions,
with every stolen eye shadow,
she lives up to her nature-outlawed body.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Fiona Sinclair
would be pleased to hear them.