Paul Sutton
This is a confession
I hope the aggrieved
will never read.
Rob, it was me who pulled your sink off the wall.
Christmas 1980, a party. I had the habit then
of staring into mirrors. Well, I leant on the basin
and the thing came clean away.
How clear I was. A quick check;
no-one was waiting. Then out through
the front door, over the fence, into the kitchen.
Without warning the lights went on.
“Rob, shit, where’s Rob...”
The poor sod was upstairs with some girl.
I kept to the back as confusion
covered all. Listening to the speculation.
Why didn’t I say it was me?
I suppose I hated them. And joining
in the post-mortem was a joy.
Maybe in another twenty years
I’ll confess to something serious.
Page(s) 36
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