THURSDAY: Marginalia


Copyright is held by the author.

Mouse-like she lived
on the edges, on the fringes,
one of the overlooked
ignored, un-remarked and

Last to arrive, first to leave
“a bus to catch,” she’d murmur,
but no one offered her a lift
or turned to watch her go.

No partner to share life,
she floated, in grey offices
sitting in cafés stretching out
a china cup of tea,
always reading a book
borrowed from the local library.

She scribbled in notebooks
at the bus stop, on the park bench
eating her cellophane-wrapped sandwiches
cut into neat triangles
smeared with Dairylea and Marmite,
brown and cream —
her favourite colours.

She watched others’ dramas
erupt, implode, explode
around her;
the star turn who so often
crashed and burned —
it was not for her

An early memory —
her father bending down
at the duck pond,
patting her mousey hair,
“Best to keep quiet Susan.
Little girls are seen not heard.”
The ground rules laid early.

  1. Thanks. You very effectively shared an experience I am familiar with. You could have titled your poem, “The introvert.”

  2. Your poem caught my attention for sure! Were you writing about me?! But you don’t even know me! Ha ha ha I don’t know why, but I see you scribbling often. Your poem touched me. Keep creating. Love, me.

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