Poems

My Least Favourite Things

Hourly car alarms,
internet trolls,
dog shit on pavements,
cheap aerosols,
ring pulls that snap
before opening the tin.
These are a few of
my least favourite things.

Flat pack home furniture
with cryptic instructions,
cheap vacuum cleaners
without any suction,
ill-informed relatives
strongly right wing.
All just a few of
my least favourite things.

Musicals, office chat,
one party states,
tax returns, astro turf,
left open gates.
Conspiracy theorists,
anything by Sting
must go on the list of
my least favourite things.

Substandard sequels,
those who jump ques,
oceans of plastic,
squeaky balloons,
crumbs in the butter,
holes in my shoes,
chumocracy leaders
with nothing to lose.
Coming out with no hair
when you asked for a trim.
These are a few of
my least favourite things.

In the sunshine, when I feel fine,
in the local pub,
it simply takes one of
these things to occur
and then I don’t feel so good.

Rowan McCabe

Careers Day

I never had a dream job.
My Mam would ask
what I wanted to be, frequently.
It seemed a big commitment.
Fireman, astronaut, doctor, musician.
None of them really fit.
Nothing did,
till Tuesday, year 9,
Miss Espinoza’s class.

See, the careers service had
this computer program that measured
every element of your personality.
Once processed
it would reveal your perfect career.
And today,
today was the day we got the results.

Can you imagine my excitement as
I held that envelope?
Knowing within its folds lay
the blueprint of my entire destiny,
every obstacle, every victory.
I tore it open.

‘Thank you for taking part
in the careers decision program.
We have analysed all of the data
and can now confirm
the ideal career for you is:
Motorcycle Courier.’

A motorcycle courier.
Yes, it was unexpected.
But I saw now that this was perfect:
Leather jacket, Levi jeans,
weaving between traffic
in busy metropolitan streets.
I’d have a studio apartment,
an espresso machine,
play saxophone in a jazz quartet;
the wind on my cheeks,
a grip on the handlebars,
worlds from the big wig suits
in the eternal hamster wheel race.
This was my ride out of this place.

I ran home,
bursting with the incredible news.
‘Mam,
I am going to be a motorcycle courier,’ I cried.
‘No you’re bloody not,’ she replied.

Rowan McCabe

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