The Crime

I stamped a puddle and splashed a bus today
It wasn’t the gun in the garage, nor the pills
and the box of strange white powder hidden away
that seemed to be the cause of all my ills.

A cold sensation came over me the moment
I caught a glimpse of blue, his look askance
confirmed my wretched sense of guilt, you bent
to whisper my defence, in my fearful trance.

Funny thing, I can’t recall quite when
it was that I performed the atrocity.
It left me feeling really bad, but then
my memory’s coloured by his callosity.

But then, after all, maybe I missed the joke;
a cruel and horrid jape it seems to me;
whimsical and harsh in just one stroke;
and I, not much older than just three?

So when that policeman returns to say hello
I’ll not speak to him, nor see red.
I shall conceal my plan, my sights below,
to stamp a puddle and splash his boots instead!

© 2011 John Anstie

(View the author’s commentary on this poem)

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