He wouldn’t handle messy fruit.
One pen, two pens, three arranged,
He’d swim to keep fear in pursuit

And only swam familiar routes.
Nibs lined up across the edge,
He wouldn’t handle messy fruit

Used fork and knife to comminute.
One pen, two pens, three arranged,
He’d swim to keep fear in pursuit

The water was his parachute.
Nibs lined up across the edge,
He wouldn’t handle messy fruit

Nightmares full of spitting grapefruit.
One pen, two pens, three arranged,
He’d swim to keep fear in pursuit

and home now, helpless, caught by fear,
as black ink soils white carpet.
He couldn’t handle messy fruit
He swam to keep fear in pursuit.

© Donna M Bottomley 2004