Thank you for the present.
I come outside,
called by you.
You're so proud of the present.
A huge, rusted engine of a boat.
"Quickly, quickly," you say,
"Before you miss it all"
The 'sea foam' begins to disappear,
the starfish drop off and curl like burning dry leaves,
screeching, screaming in excruciation
before the ash flies upwards.
The puddles rings shake inwards.
In the puddle are potted plants in plastic bags,
waiting to go home with me.
"How am I going to take this home?" I say with a slight, hesitant laugh.
Secretly I don't want to take it home.
I have to.
I sit on the train with this engine,
taking up half a carriage like a white elephant.
People don't notice it.
"What a nice engine," says an old woman with wise eyes and a red, leather suitcase.
"Thank you," I reply.
I wish she would take it.
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