Dazzling

An Angry Woman Uses a Carton in No Particular Order

The first egg I hurl at the third-rate comedian with the badly-spoken dummy and the go-fast hat
he's been barking nasty barbs that aren't jokes about fat women and thin women and etc etc etc women

and the second I chuck at my childhood church where my genuflection was always too shallow
for those luxury cars grazing smugly in the yard while Jesus wept from the windows

then number three I fling at at the billboard's picture-perfect skin and teeth as white as a toilet bowl
and the goldspun halo and the pneumatic breasts and whatever else she is trying to advertise

four cracks against the neighbour who is exercising his right to mow his Amazonian lawn
into what should have been my most velvet repose at sparrow-fart on a Saturday morning

the fifth I catapault at the politician who cuts essential funding to the public schools and hospitals
with his sneakiest private scissors because public schools and hospitals have never made a profit

halfway through and the next I toss at the greengrocer's blackboard with its chalky list of wares
including carrot's, pea's, potatoe's, cucumber's, apple's, banana's, orange's and pear's

number seven I lob at the commuter with the phone who is shouting "Yeah? I'm on the train! I'm on the -
what? I'm on the train! I said, I'll see you at - no, I'm, like, on the train - can you tell Stacey that I'm . . . "

the eighth I heave at pompous Mr P who stood over my eleven-year-old self and said not to dream
of a life of art because girls have no history of making any difference, of having importance in that arena

number nine I pitch at the scrum of neckless football players who try to dominate the length of Sunday
with a heaving grunting game that everyone seems to love but me because it is brutal and boring

the tenth I shatter against the mean green face of the bathroom scales which dare to suggest
that I am two kilo heavier and change despite the fact that I have been consuming mere air

eleven is broken on the evil keys which used to yield but now keep their harmonies locked from me
presenting instead dischord both minor and major and tension both aural and aesthetic

the final egg is meant for me but I drop it on the lino, I slip on its guts with a whoops and I fall
and down and sore I reflect with diminished rage, sore pride, an empty carton and egg on my face