when i was four
my dad had a pilot friend
who had a son
who came swimming with me.
he pulled my hair
and called me stupid
and teased me.
i hated him.
and i hated his dad.
until my dad came home from work
with a gosimmer tear and a head full of news
because his pilot friend
had died in a plane crash.
i didn't talk about
the son anymore.
his name was just the unspoken thread
woven on the dinner table.
YOU ARE READING
Just Another Scripted Brain
PoetryMy naive attempt to navigate primary school is documented in a series of bite-size snapshots, intended for scrutiny and best paired with a cup of tea and a nice episode of Blackadder. You might have to take a pit stop at certain embarrassing moment...
