The Boys...

Sweet things roll into sour spaces

I suppose you have to look for them

but I never do

Against the Jackson Pollack of my day

my day, all sticky and swirling and yet somehow dull

dull as a white sky in mid-winter, the sun hidden for who knows how long

against all this I forgot to look down

And maybe if I did, if I did look down

I would register a prickly annoyance scraping at my body

How dare someone make light of all that I carry

hot and irritated I might squash this delightful confection

beneath my practical dull black boot

But maybe—there’s that maybe again—maybe

later after tea and a hint of sunshine through the window

I might catch a speck of pink or an unnaturally bright blue

left behind on the cuff of my trousers

And maybe I might laugh

Photo series by Sadie Myers. Words by Lindsay Porter.