Hello, Kitty

 

Hello, Kitty

 

Princess Pussy Drawers wears some sparkly bling,

is a gaunt, linear, wispy-blonde thing

found hanging around in the morning gym

often as much as twice a week.

Scarcely moves; seldom speaks

except in squeaks, contemplating her physique

in the mirror, mirror on the wall.

Neither big but nothing small

she comes in tie-dye white vest affairs,

twitching her rear, tossing hair

while simulating dives off a low-slung bench,

gripping hands, safely lands teeth clenched

on the double-thick rubber mat –

as if to say, well, look at me; get that.

So thin, scratching her papier-mache skin,

picks a painted button nose, a pointy chin,

pale blue pond-water, powder-puff looks

in bleached plaster and closed books.

Everything’s lush, everyone’s ripped,

she surged from skies, didn’t slip;

is pleased to receive plus 500 quid

weekly, for conferring wisdom such as it is,

conducting classes of pre-nursery kids

through some little of life’s intricacies,

‘Heads, shoulders knees and toes,

knees and toes’; this is the way that learning goes,

Gordian rituals like ‘The Wheels on the Bus’,

with focus frowns; conducts her class:

‘Hop, little bunny, hop, hop, hop,’

sipping from Stanley a slurry of pre-mixed slop

she had delivered from a coffee shop

next door by a Nepali rider; disapproves of

his smell, but after all, the weather’s hot -

later she’ll put up with quite a lot more

burgers, fries, coke zero from the same store –

or somewhere similar. Checks phone for gossip,

if it’s scurrilous, she hopes she’s in it,

and come falling dusk and fading light,

gets skulled, pukes up her junk; joins a dawn

chorus of tone deaf Abba medley singalongs

hurling spurious shite into gathering storms.