It would be best to term me as the ungrateful one,
a terminal grouch, hopelessly incurable...
forever whining that I cannot cup the stars against my face,
whisper...in their ear,
a name...that tickles my lips
that I cannot fly away with the seagulls,
high-five the skies like the tide at noon,
that I cannot comfort a romance novel’s handsome,
heartbroken hero, touch his cheek...
cannot make my home in a robin’s nest,
stay curled and cosied and chocolated....
forever, in my mother’s arms,
for I cannot always make autumn walk beside me
like a friend, and make the moon,
kiss-soothe my worn out shoulders at all times,
for daddy won’t always be strong enough
to do fifty push-ups every day,
and princes won’t always be all that charming,
for I won’t always be lucky to make sure,
that everyone’s safely tucked away for the night
for all I can really do is stand here in September’s rain,
savouring…soaking and slipping
and simply holding on… to poetry,
for dear life.