Reader, I buried him

He’s festering under the fig tree,
the editor who said
that because I used the pronoun ‘she’
the poem should be warmer,
as if ‘she’ can only mean ‘mum’
and then the nicer, cuddly sort,
festooned with beige crochet,
endlessly clutching tea.
I snuck up upon him,
with a shovel I named ‘She’.
And it’s true, you know!
After hitting him from behind
the shovel was quite warm
with my sweat and his thin blood.
And now he is composing no
offensive missives,
and composting rather well.
And the figs, the gentle figs,
well they taste fucking sweet.

PS Cottier


PS Cottier gets up. PS Cottier feeds the budgie. PS Cottier writes. PS Cottier blogs at PS Cottier sleeps. Do all this, and you too can be Perfectly Serene Cottier.

 © 2017