Waiting Room
A couch, apple green and marked from age,
holes from inquisitive fingers,
trounced from the oversized arse
as she piledrives the slumping seat towards the floor.
Fanny eyes the magazine with interest,
pondering its contents - gastric bands, break-ups, skinny jeans.
My attention glides to the glossy folio,
A lustrous and gleaming testament to mindless gossip.
Fingers tingle, an irrational urge to pounce,
pokes like a sharpened arrow.
My dive, graceful, with poise,
Fanny strikes, swiftly, serpentine.
Recto paws connect with verso digits.
Origami shreds cascade, confetti snowflakes.
Mortification concealed by a condescending smile,
“Oh I’d already read that one.”