Mug
She holds it up too conspicuously,
flag-waves it - for all the bus to see:
a plastic mug, reads ‘Proud to be Me’,
in disposable beaker and straw scrawl,
blink and you wouldn’t miss it, really.
Definitely draws attention to something,
I can’t say I know what, though.
You're curious. If you lack for nothing
then what is it you know you lack
that you feel those indifferent at the back
should sit up and take note of?
I mean the mug is causing no ripple,
no applause, not even a shrug
as she’s standing, sipping, staring,
but that’s the sound of no one caring.
It’s coloured like Bridesmaid’s confetti,
and ribbons from a shook tambourine
in crimson, yellow, purple, green,
like you might see in street parades,
you’ll hear whistles, then they fade.
Or even, ‘well done for being brave’
and then passes you a free lollipop,
sugar at the dentists to cure tooth rot,
because a hole here needs filling
but don’t use raw plugs, keep drilling.
And the therapist at the support group
who told you there’s only ‘I’, not team,
now let’s build your self-esteem,
so here’s a mug, it says you’re special.
And is there actually anything in it?
Those who are the quiet majority,
passed up on, are non mug owners
here on the bus, are not standing up
with look you hair and spectrum cups
or charity shop chunky knit bonnets.
It’s not unique that it doesn’t quite fit,
nothing special at all. Even that voice,
husky pulling sledge, is down to choice.
We’re all separate, take our own paths,
machete through the tall grasses,
most of us cry, some of us laugh,
but don’t feel the need for naff
flag day ‘proud to be me’ plastic trash,
as if everyone should want to know
any pitiful story behind the logo:
You feel the need to tell us like it is,
be the correct answer in a TV quiz
compered by some camp comedian.
Yet, here's no scoop, no hold the press,
no exclusive story, no life’s a mess
just an inkling of too much of this
self-indulgent, self-important pastiche.
