Damsel

I bump into my neighbour in the supermarket and we
exchange pleasantries.
Chit chat. This and that.
I feel as if I am five years old and waiting for my mother to stop talking
so that we can get down to the serious business of selecting the biscuits.

Except that I am not five years old but twenty five
and my mother is five hundred miles away
and somehow, somehow,
it is my voice talking about the average rainfall
my voice pitched at the perfect level of interest she expects
as she describes the recent ruckuss at the May Fair Committee.
Mm-hm. No, really? She didn’t? Did she?

And all the while I am glancing around
surreptitiously peering towards the biscuit aisle
desperate for my five-year-old self to appear
and grab me by the hand
brandishing a plastic sword and shield, screaming
at the top of her voice, not caring if everyone stares
stamping her feet in a glorious uncoordinated canter
revelling in her own bravery as she rescues me from

this finicky counterpoint of gossip and shopping list
these mental inventories of cupboards
when I should be inventing stories
this calorie-examining fretfulness, grappling with thigh and hip
this politeness. This worrying.
All this careermoneyexpectations
this bankbalancebillsmortgage shit.

What happened to being a bank robber? Where is my pirate ship?
I left it beached on the lawn when I ran in for my tea.
I was only gone for a moment, but somehow time’s tide
has swept it off towards the estuary.