These porcelain Pinschers.
Life-size, larger even
than your living room
(and my composure)
should bear.
I swear I see teeth.
Clever.
When you come down
you’re already one up.
My hand stretched to itching,
my rent-paying smile,
is how it will be.
“Good to see you,
Colin, I love your place.”
A line to keep me
plunging all night.
But what if: my pockets
hauled them down
(my beggar hands)
and my smile was submerged,
stashed in reserve,
for that maniac fern
on its pink-marble perch?
I could meet you with an eyebrow,
say: “Class, Colin, pure class.”
Knowing full-well that irony
gets on fine without you
like your money
without me.
Kevin Bloom, South African poet, editor, award-winning journalist and soon-to-be-published author
Posted with permission of the author
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