Poetry

 Poor Little Peter

It’s always at 7:45am on the dot.

I get out of my bed to observe them,

with a fascinated horror,

scurrying. Insects.

Their black, carapace heads

glistening under bowler hats as

they teem at tram stops, automatons.

moving to work. I watch them

through my glass,

detestable, ugly, alien in form.

I wonder

How long until I am like them?

I wonder

How long before I swap my blazer for tails?

My satchel for a briefcase?

My curls for the slick shell of an adult head?

I don’t ever want to.

I’ve been looking for a place

that won’t make me grow up,

where I can be young, lively, free

forever.

I know what the maids say

as they scuttle around.

“Poor little thing” they say

“To thinks such a place exists, oh lud! Poor little Peter.”

They tell me it’s as real as mermaids,

Magic, or men flying.

But I’ll keep looking,

even if they say I’ll never, never find it.

Dan Turner