“The Short Straw”

by  Richard Fletcher

Published: June 24, 2009

A quick trilogy was completed
and a quadrangle of rank Herb Robert weeded
improving no end
my finger speed
as things fizzed past my face all round

Your communique was way too precise
to be beyond suspicion
then exquisitely painful when it stopped.

Your brother had swung from the clothes line
which snapped
and left him to bounce hard
on the flagstones,
earning a walloping from your mum
who dragged him by his britches
from the hedgerow bottom he’d crawled to whimpering
and leaving him sorely grounded for the day.

It magnificently cleared the way
for us
to be taken
for a Saturday afternoon treat
to the car wash
where we gleefully sat tight
and slowly entered
those rubber brush rollers.

I looked quite different, they said.
Not meaning my clothes.

- rather like holding a Passionflower
with knuckledusters.

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