Pulling on scruffy, badly laced joggers
With savage triumph, I dig inky hands
Into the deep pockets of my tree-brown
Greatcoat, and across time’s unblurring sands
Stick my tongue out at the dark memories
Of grumps enforcing ladylike conduct.
I yodel my merry way to the shops,
Cheering because they cannot now deduct
Marks for running, nor take away my book –
I’m just saying: adulthood sucks;
But not all of it. Not quite all.
Tree trembling in the chill autumn,
Let your wheezing leaves fall,
Your twigs splinter
I turn grey; you merely gold. Come,
Drape your glorious shawl
Of gilded rot.
Tree of branches bared by winter,
Your spring will come again;
Mine will not.
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Bandit Fiction, Literati Magazine, Feral, Across The Margin, and a number of other literary magazines. Check out her Linktree here.