Your Name Is Claire

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Your name is Claire, but you don't know that I know it.
On blasphemous wings you soar above lowly humanity,
hugging a Prada bag stuffed with a filofax and two Iphones,
one for business, you chuckle to your hoity-toity friends,
and one for pleasure. Overconfidently you ponce around
in your Italian leather boots, a designer dress
that you tell everyone prepared to listen
cost the best part of five hundred quid
and a mink coat sewn by child slaves in New Delhi
worth, I guess, considerably more.
You eye me warily when I pass you on the street
as if you think I'm planning to rob you;
you look down your nose at at me just like
you looked in disgust at the dog shit you trod in last Summer
outside WH Smiths in your brand new Gladiator sandals.
Foolishly I felt sorry for you and helped you
to clean up the mess, but my misplaced gallantry
was quickly forgotten. I guess you've also forgotten
another Summer long passed when in the innocence of youth
you and I chatted drunkenly for hours in a fancy wine bar
the name of which I've somehow mislaid.
You told me all about your solicitor mother and surgeon father
and your well-plotted golden future,
and I told you utterly without shame about
my penniless, piss-poor council estate background.
Still, after I offered to walk you home you permitted me,
a common scum-sucking peasant,
to unload my angst into your eager chuff,
the first shaven pussy I ever saw
on the damp, litter strewn grass behind Saint Peters
under a full, gorgeous and effortlessly romantic moon.
Your name is Claire, but you don't know that I know it.