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The Monday Poem

The Cistern Chapel
Read This
Read This
Ella Hickson
 Monday 03 December 2007, The Journal Issue 3

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In fourth floor library toilets
The light is rather lower
And the walls are rather dour,
Where the floor is thick
With the odorous slick
Produced by those
You would rather not know.
With my slips around my ankles
I look down on upper thighs.
I ask the glinting God of neon light
To ease my worried brow.
A calm is found in cubicles,
With feet placed square and fair below.
Those firm feet and funny naked legs
That dangled in the toddler time,
Full sandled and pink socked,
As mum slid red leather into bright buckles
Pulling tights up to the armpit,
She held me dangling by my hosiery.
Now, far too fully-grown
I hide behind my hands.
From the laughing labyrinth
Of swift hellos and goodbyes
From those that hold your history
And now mark the lame stains of mediocrity.
My stinking generation that reeks indifference
Can be escaped between thick Formica walls.
Here I am sanitarily sanctioned to cry, a little.
Or scream a bit,
“Silence please”
I know.
To escape the pure-bred madness of smiling
At those who’ve watched you orgasm,
At faces you have scrutinized for signs of love.
To play placate to those you hate
To run in fear
From rings of gold and scruffy hair
Of skiing trips to val-d’Isere,
I am hiding here till five.
At least.
Feet placed square and fair
Here I shall feel –
What the bloody hell I like.
The Monday Poem is provided by Read This Magazine. The December issue is available in Wordpower and the Forest Café or online at www.readthismagazine.co.uk
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