Spot of bother

When I was little
I painted,
you know,  
those hand print paintings  
where colours merge
and a kid's ideals become nothing more
than a failed attempt at a flower
on the bitter edge of the shore.
 
 
I realise  
I'm not that petulant child,
I'm not in that rebellious place,
the ideals have changed - the moments
are less frequently joyful
yet more consequential,
ever playing into the ploy
 
that keeps me sitting,
if not double-guessing
the day and the shot and the way I sway
to your disco beat, it's the place to eat
and stay and play and empower,
if only to lose myself in another dramatic love affair
 
and it's not fair of me
to comb my hair for another
or get rid of that fat I live under -
I'm all yours
and it's free
most nights.
It's free
most nights.