Did you name me to mock me- you and the boy?
Did you wait until the soft, fresh flakes had thawed
to fashion me an ice man with your Kenny Everett hands?
Diminutive, my body tightly packed, no room to breathe
A brittle brace around my February heart
You, a schizoid Jamie Oliver, laughing with your thyme hair plugs to prick in the wet pate of my bald head
Mushing fruit into my face as if to craft a Wintry Oedipus
Leaving me to cry thick blueberry tears
My arms, my buttons, my forced smile so painfully pedestrian
Plucked from the branches and the soil of your forsaken ‘outside space’
And, what, the final sneer, a cashew nut screwed hard into the place where I would inhale the odour of the sun, my love, the earth on which I sit
Well, just hear this, you Oafish Bint
One day as you ponce down the street
Your suede-effect gloves tucked safely in the drawer at home
I will pop by to say hello in sheets of driving rain
And you will not be humming Phil Collins hits