THE STYLE OF THE INFANTILE (poem to my sister)

The style of the infantile

Remember when you played dead in the bath
To fall for it once was cruel
But to fall twice –
Oh, well - that’s the style of the infantile
And now we smile back and laugh

Remember when you played dead in the bath
I fell for it over and over
We would fight we would argue
Then we grew and grew
And then sometimes regressed
Oh, well-
That’s the style . . .

With no future but the afternoon
Oh, the whole street was our whole world
Back then everything was much more
New to the eyes
And strange to the mind
We had no sense of time

Sunday;
I said a bad word and Dad heard
You took the flack, but then I took it back
I guess I loved you
As much as you loved me
Expressed with teases wind ups and slurs
But that’s the style . . .

You could be mean
But I was no angel;
I let your pink money blow away in the wind
You smashed my favourite cup
Why so special? I dunno –
It was the dullest shade of green
(So very dull)

Do you still have that scar?
The one that I gave you
The one from the fire
(A childish crime)
But a crime none the less

When he attacked me by the urinals
You made sure his action was final
They chased him across the all-weather pitch
Then it was my turn to return the favour
That day when Annette was real bitch!
I swung her in the bushes
And pushed her in the hedge
Her brother he was my best friend
I thought he would understand
Oh, well –
That’s the style of the infantile