We drained an hour of madness
from the Alpine souvenir jug -
sniffed a blast of varnish remover,
a posse of parents gathered furious
as peasants at a monster’s castle;
a penalty hour for each of my ten years.
Next week another kid kicks
our front door in and there’s trouble.
Sentence this time house arrest.
But weekends, packs of superheroes
terrorised the area, trampling
flowers and fighting in the street,
until my mother sent me away
to a better school where I endured
their scorn for need of education.
---
John Short lives near Liverpool after many years in Europe. He is widely published, most recently in South Bank Poetry, London Grip, Poetry Salzburg, Sarasvati and The Blue Nib. In 2018 he was a Pushcart nominee and his pamphlet Unknown Territory is due out from Black Light Engine Room Press next week. He blogs sporadically at johnshort.poetry.blog (Tsarkoverse).
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