Poppet: A Poem
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Their systems linger, awaiting your arrival, which will not happen. We zip, we air gun, and we do not stop. Windygates, Kenilworth, I see your Co-ops, your lonely ironmongeries, your tracery of lanes I might possibly dally in. Chesterfield, I doubt we will ever meet proper.
The Puppet Mistress
Yet a newsagent sign catches my eye, a woman bent to some task of thought. On a wet corner in Barnstaple, a vicar and a poppet bat a balloon. It is green and always must be. Gary, Indiana, proving this is everywhere, or some grey town south of St Malo, where we did not stop to buy beef for that chilli or a basket of cold beers.
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Newark and Stevenage, fetish settlements for the passer through, each with its microcosm of neverness, model villages helium pumped till bachelors and long lost women parade their shadowier provinces, seeking orange juice or scourers or the last paper plates in the store. Make my point?
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Oh, it is that there is not one. I grew to what I am in a town you can never pass through, unless you are driving into the sea. All these years later I am surprised at your recall of the precious poppet pushed through the door, always dressed in impossibly white cotton frocks, pretty, pristine seldom up for finger painting and sandpitting.
She played quiet, solo games emerging clean and unruffled, remarked by a loud, proud parent while you came back to me messy and wild, hand painted, squashed and sandpapered. You said you always had a thing for her Snow Whiteness until secondary school when she went Goth and the dresses darkened to black, full of salacious slashes revealing flashes of snail-trail scars on pale flesh. Neither of us heard what became of the pushy mother.
Writer's Block with Homan Potterton. Artistic License: Frances Ryan.