It All Started with that Guy at the Portrait Gallery
You’re a most peculiar child,
that’s what Dad would say as he pumped
fuel into the Ford Falcon’s gas tank,
and I’d inhale clouds of fumes encircling
my head straight and deep into my lungs.
I thought it was a most hypnotic scent.
Almost as good as Mum’s cinnamon rolls.
Same thing goes for paint. And varnish.
One day those fumes are going to kill you,
Dad would say. I believed everything he said
(well, I would, being only 6-years old), so
I accepted that I was most peculiar. Didn’t
think too deeply about the killing part.
I was 6. Peculiar, but not abnormal.
It’s like when I visited Phuket years ago.
I was wearing fake-designer sunglasses,
and god help me, I could hardly see across
the street where a vendor was selling
fake watches, but I managed by shuffling
in the midst of a quick-paced crowd.
Wanted to see how much a watch cost,
and by the time I could focus on it,
my nose was almost flush to the watch face.
Well, that thoroughly ticked-off the vendor
of the fake watches, and he pointed me
away saying, You Go. Bye Bye lady.
I never bought a Phuket fake watch.
Now I mention all this because I saw a man
at the Portrait Gallery looking at a painting,
and his nose was close enough to touch
the canvas. I think he was wearing fake specs.
Or maybe he just loves the scent of paint,
which is not a peculiar thing at all.
©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter