The consummate host

There’s dust on the welcome mat
but the door stands ajar,
that awkward push-pull dynamic
as your people pleaser battles
(oh so politely)
with the introvert screaming at us
to fuck off.

The commentator on the telly
rolls out the old cliche
about it being a game of two halves,
and I gratefully accept a drink
while noting that the door remains     ajar,
a reminder
that I haven’t left yet.

Unicorns and metaphors

Fragile strands,
ephemeral as candy floss,
twine around my fingers
in shades of raspberry
and amaranth
as I comb my fingers
through her mane.

Her coat, in champagne pink,
reminds me of deep, expensive
shag pile carpet,
the kind you sink into,
the kind that invites you to
curl up and dream.

The sturdy sensibility of
her tapered, achromatic horn
contrasts sharply with
eyes that dance with delight
and a thousand tiny rainbows.

And as we watch each other
with wary wonder,
I am so utterly enchanted
that I miss the symbolism
altogether.

First rule of fight club…

Hushed murmurs
swirl among the dust
to gather in discarded piles
swept under the rug by
Corrections staff.

The stench of fear
and resentment
commingles with
anticipation
and the unmistakable
odour of testosterone.

Skill, emotion,
those bulging muscles…
Whatever.
You’re wearing
the wrong uniform, buddy.