Dominique Webb | + Follow Poet |
Free verse | + Fav Poem | Comment | Email | Print |

My Bright Orange Rugby Shirt

The bright orange rugby shirt I had, 
When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen,  
Was my trophy and my pride and joy, 
Never to be deprived of me, 
Even if I complained to my parents or to their friend, 
To have been seen to be a boy too much, 
Or, in other words, mistaken as a superior person,  
With other sociology to fulfil all my wishes. 

I was just assertive and intelligent and all that, 
A fashion icon, an example to others, 
To disabled people or to church young persons, 
Who were both the same to me, like each other;
They just wanted to fit into society, 
To mark their case for more wheelchair rights,
Or in order to state their reason for believing in god. 

I had my identity, my beliefs, and my role models, 
Listened to them in respect, with amorosity:
I knew what I wanted to do in life, 
And my goals were of course reasonable, 
Because they could be achieved no problem, abstractly.

But that was it, and there it was, 
Objectively everything sounded fine, 
Doable, but what you thought about it, 
The practicalities weighed you down, 
Taught the string which so dangled entertainingly, 
As a condition that was more of a pleasure,   
To make, to work out such that your desires happened. 

So my bright rugby shirt said it all really, 
That I should have my desires and goals, 
That I should be met and facilitated in life, 
And not my parents or those church leaders, 
That I was supposed to follow.

I did not ever have to state my case beforehand,
Before the meetings about my future and care needs, 
Because everyone knew I was an atheist, 
Able with expression and communication, 
Able with much trust for other people. 

I was in Germany once with my parents,  
Dressed as usual in the clothes that I like,
Without hesitation, care or timidity; 
My jumper may not have been bright orange, 
But it was still colourful enough to attract attention.

So my parents were embarrassed, particularly my dad, 
Who was a war veteran true and sensitive, 
And so from then on we hid inside shops, 
And even stayed longer in restaurants,  
Because all the wheelchair spaces for the cafés, 
Were outside those cafés at tables on the pavement;
So we shopped, visited the toilet more, went to museums, 
Instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.

Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016

Please Login to post a comment