He’s thirty-three, for Chrissake,
thirty three. Thirty fucking three.
Three, three. This year
he turns thirty-four.
And he’s still expecting me
to sort his life out. What have I done
to get to deal with all his shit?
Some times he forgets
I’m still twenty-one.
Overheard outside the Southbank Centre, London, at about 3pm on February 2nd 2013. Submitted by Judi Sutherland.
Verbatim Poetry 