For Margaret

Another Sunday. A stray dog sniffs
its own piss. Even the crows
are bored.

Over the road, three boys
have climbed the bus-shelter
to welly stones at passing cars
and cats.

Me and Marg have done
the slide, the frame, the swing
and are now sprawled on the broken slats
of roundabout. I’m counting out
the Smarties:

one for me
one for you
one for me
one for –

From above, a fag-furred voice:

Frig’s sake, you’d think she’d never seen
a fucking Smartie before.

It’s not God, but an older girl
with tantrum-thrower arms
and hair so greasy
it could batter conger-eels.

Our Smarties got left behind. Later,
I imagined the light bag of death
and the disappointment
when the crows discovered the brightly coloured shells
housed no sexy bugs.

Janette Stowell

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