I wish I were a tinsel garland.
Then maybe people would look at me and smile.
I wouldn’t have to drive past the girls on Manchester Street,
their red-light targets winking in thong-flick adjustments,
and wonder what they dreamed of in their five-year-old
miss muffet beds.

Dangled above doorways
I could puff my filaments centipede fashion
and never have to worry about some guy
hitting on my not-so-red-light-as-you’d-notice
target.

I wouldn’t know of the Afghani boy in the paper today
with his bandaged nub arms, and maybe,
if I was a cheerful, sparkly decoration, I could twinkle
some of the abandoned minefield from his eyes.

If I were a spangled streamer
my career would be decided beforehand.
The only upwardly mobile event, the yearly ascent
of the Christmas tree.

Rae Pater

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