Billy, my Jack Russell, is still quite constipated,
so he sniffs the yellowed grass and whines,
his bowels straining with the effort.
Come on pal, I say,
please wrangle out a turd
before the gawpers come.
At least he is predictable,
just like Geoff the jogger,
who bang on time shoots from the bushes
by the bandstand, gives me a wave.
I don’t know what he does in there
but he always looks quite pleased,
and doesn’t bat an eyelid
at my furry Kermit slippers and my tatty dressing gown that
I wear every morning down the scabby council park.
I stamp my feet, impatient,
ready with the pooper scoop,
when I see a crowd come in the gate,
strangers, every one.
There’s punks and blue rinse grannies,
young kids, men with ties,
but something’s strange about these folk;
hunched hushed they come,
glued to their ‘phones and muttering;
at least a hundred shuffling
through some other world that hides.
Well, what an opportunity,
a proper audience for once,
so I whip it out to catch their eyes,
my gown stretched wide and welcome;
I expect some ‘Tuts’ perhaps,
shrieks or glances of derision;
but they drift right by,
I’m just invisible to them it seems,
my manhood droops in disappointment.
Then one stops dead and gasps,
turns to me excited,
points a finger at me, shouting,
Pikachu, Pikachu –
well, they all prick up then,
craned meerkat heads all staring;
they all stampede at me, now frothing.
My dog’s not used to this, he’s off, me too,
gown gaping open wildly;
get me away from lunatics
that should be arrested promptly.