Hey, boy

Hey, boy.

Have you been missing me lately?

Do you wonder about the kerfuffle in my sherbet-fountain heart; are you tugged by desire to tip the aspirins in the cola bottle and watch the world explode?

Or is it ok, is it enough? This second-hand teabag, lukewarm water weekend?

Sit by the lake and watch pond skaters dance across a surface as slick as butterflies’ wings.

Watch the sky in stereo and both carbon copies are Kodak-postcard blue.

I hope it’s enough.

Hey.

I want you to wonder if it’s worth risking the short straw to grab the baton from that clumsy-footed tornado clattering down the inside lane. She’s all dressed up in knee-sport socks and running shoes; she’s pelting for a chance at the podium.

Hey.

Turn your head to the hot dog stand and she trips, hand outstretched, track burns on her knees.

The track doesn’t roar back, the hurricane passes overhead, fate chuckles and turns over three cards. One of them is the nine of diamonds.

Never mind.

Sit silent in the suburb and play pretend you’ve lashed a sailor’s flag to the mast of the city.

Sit quiet among your look-both-way-girls, and try not to scream for seismic activity.

Jane Flett is a philosopher, cellist, and seamstress of most fetching stories. Her poetry will feature in Salt’s Best British Poetry 2012 and her fiction—which Tom Robbins described as “among the most exciting things I’ve read since social networking crippled the Language Wheel”—was recently commissioned for BBC Radio 4. You can come visit her at http://janeflett.com. Bring gin and cheeseboards, please.

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