Poem: Gallimaufry

A poem about a mess, a stew, a jumble, a tangle, a (sad) joke

I still don’t know exactly
when he turned, I get the feeling it was
slow-burn, happening all the time. But three
years in the boys-only school certainly
didn’t help him. Or helped him to turn,

if you want to look at it that way.
But why appreciate that view? What
bothered me most was the easy way
he could win a room, take them over, make
you seem like the crazy one. Turn the

gaslighting down and the
heat up high. Bray loudly into the night.
That smirk was one for the pantomime
stage. The unsettled rage that cooked
so slowly inside him.