Monday's Child (I.P.)

Wish I knew then, what I know now;
that someone had told me what it was like
to be poked, prodded, scrutinised. A saleable
commodity; an object of desire, whose life
revolves around fashion shows and cinema ads.

Occasions such as these, I wish to god,
I’d been born on a Tuesday; far sooner
be full of grace, than a Monday’s child –
destined to be fair of face.

Days like today, just for once, I want
to be myself. To tell them, ‘Show’s over.
Please, go home. This is where the play
ends; the curtain falls and life begins.’

Standing here, staring down that lens,
I get to wondering, if a lake ever longs
to be a pond, or if a snow-capped mountain
sometimes has designs on being a plain
and simple, clover-coated hill.

Daydreaming over; told to ‘hold that pose’,
except, my legs ache, and I’m knackered,
and I feel like a black-striped gazelle
wishing, like hell, it were a toad...
when those poachers came along.