my steely glare.
I know, I know,
I’m far too young and hot to spend my evenings
noting down their number plates –
yet, here we are,
calling up the council to complain.
It eases things a little, Ava – to lodge, to file, to
oppose…
a little paperwork, a little email chain, a little
someone at a desk somewhere putting me on hold.
The hold-music for the council’s parking office is
Maria Callas singing “Vissi d’arte” from Tosca.
What emotion – che bella, Ava!
Although those high notes through a
crackly line are piercing – really test your nerve…
it’s possible that’s the point.
I have to turn the phone off speakerphone before her
final ardent, long – Signor – else I get a headache.
Goodlord Goodcall Badair
I wish I could report these fruit flies, Ava.
They drift about my vision undeterred –
peppy, is how I would describe them,
unconscionably buoyant,
apparently unkillable.
Where do they even come from, Ava?
The fruit itself?
Emerging from the forehead of a Granny Smith?
Surely not!
I’m tired, Ava.
I sneak out with my Post-it notes at midnight, when the
buses are asleep – stick one to every windscreen,
You’re killing us! You’re killing us! You’re killing us!
Those little boys deep in my cave-brain beat their
fists against rock.
Goodgod that Hardy book was dire.
As was that school, Ava.
A couple of the parents did complain of course –
after the AFC/sex-ed debacle – felt their children should
have information, questions answered, facts.
So the school put a suggestion box in the
