My Hat, How Petty Can You Get

The reason that she didn’t come to my last poetry reading Was that I had but faintly praised her hat. It was a monstrous thing which Mrs. Thatcher, the Queen most certainly, would have shunned. It was sort of like a jerry-built bird’s nest Jammed full of something like seaweed, Yes, like something straight out of a horror film, a “thing.” My “Er, yuss, rather .. er .. interesting” Evidently was not good enough. She stamped her foot, Picked up her cocktail And left her corner – in a huff. My hat! How petty can you get? Perhaps my not getting too smitten by her hat and all Had something to do with the fact That that snooty husband of hers Never acknowledges me when we meet. The most joy I can get from him Is a barely audible grunt. I’m not petty, just very sensitive. Quite different. Maybe I’m just growing cynical. As I see it, Most ordinary run-of-the-mill individuals Can’t forgive a slight More than just once or twice, Let alone seventy times seventy times, Like your true saint actually might. Most folks keep accounts. Come off it. You know they do, Of course, they do, Or a points system, Except true friends. But even there I have my doubts. True, friends like friendly bank managers Wouldn’t dream of mentioning your overdraft. No, they will lean over backwards To extend generous terms of credit. There are such things as Interest-free loans, write-offs, Grants and gratuities, but Not even the IMF has limitless funds. Only the most officious bank clerk Actually likes bouncing checks, Allowing no time lag between tit and tat. But in the longer term A balance sheet is drawn, And even a benign auditor Must draw a line somewhere Between the troughs and peaks.