I never had any -

brothers and sisters that is. Some of my friends

had loads, but I was a loner, an only one.

'Spoilt rotten' neighbors reckoned, bound to be,

with only myself to consider.

I never noticed, sticking stamps into albums,

stories for company instead of kin.

They never squabbled over toys

or told tales to my mother. My companions

proved strict however, harsher

than any parent. They sent me early to bed,

pencil in hand, demanded my attention.

Even now I am grown, plots drum

in my mind like rain on window panes.

My characters require love, wages of time.

They have bad habits, appearing unexpectedly,

rejection slips in hand. Stories are so impatient,

and no one ever taught poems good manners.

As for novels, they are absolute tyrants.

If your sister shut you in a silent room

and wanted your soul, you could at least

have her arrested for abuse. Just occasionally

though, my surrogate family arrives, bearing gifts.

We kiss and make up and talk all night.

For days afterwards, my spirit sings.