in my street

Tessa shuffles in boots with teapot from the counter
with the pretty waitress
to the high chair by the window
with the pretty sunshine.
She’s always seeking
a high seat to perch on,
something comforting
about her feet dangling free perhaps,
unable to reach the ground.
The café is busy
with jostling cups,
clitter-clatter cutlery,
movement and chattery
and plenty of noise to hide away in.
People kiss cheeks and whisper gossip snippets
that grow wings
and find her ears.
Words travel up and over
the pages of her book,
mingling with the sentences before her
and she’s swilling around
in alphabet soup,
though none of the voices manage to drown out
the one in her head.
‘Fool.
You silly fool’.
It’s a day only a long shower,
Dad’s oversized striped pyjamas
and the words ‘fuck off’ can fix.
The shower finds her as soon as she steps outside.
Rain gushes and swills at her feet.
She grins as she cocks back her head
and lets it wash the hardness of the day off her face
in tiny rivers
that snake
and cling with her hair
like sticky honey.
Her dress,
a little sponge of flowers
that drink
and drink
and drink.
Umbrellas in primary colours spurt up around her
like giant neon mushrooms
and a car accelerates through a growing puddle,
like a belly of a ship,
splashing it up and drenching her entirely.
There’s a guy next to her.
Wet slacks
and brown-browed frowns
and curled down lips
that yell
and scoff.
‘Fuck off’,
he wishes to the automobile prancer.
She glances across at him,
in all her dripping little flotsam,
all dance-eyed,
happy sighed,
wonders at his anger
and thinks,
Fool.
You silly fool.