After all, it is my own stupid fault.

I certified you to live, breathe; fester like a germ in a blocked sink,

inside my head and was never surprised when you drew across the bolt

and tunnelled your way to where you grandstand at what I think.

Your expertise, I applauded, for who could not admire the sense

of purpose you showed in whispering in my ear,

of living with easy contempt with every pound, shilling and pence

worth of damned words at my chosen life and career.

On the outside, you are so ordinary, a preacher of grace and (perverted) mass,

but as you see in my head, I witness and smile how you stoop and how low

at the continued snide remarks out you dole.

From head to foot your clothes scream perfection, the personification of class

and yet as we set off on the same journey, the shoes we wear, show

we at least finish at the end with the same scuffed sole.

Ian D. Hall 2014