Survive Adult Life

Poem By Margaret Alice Second

Anastasia Krupnik asked open-ended questions
doing a project on her career, wanting to become
a bookstore owner to sell her dad’s poems; today
we did open-ended questions in French Class for
grown-ups - over the hill and almost lying in our
coffins already -

How to use open-ended questions reverberated in
sepulchral tones as we studied arranging a meeting
on interior decoration and preferred mode of trans-
portation - my favourite subjects - my brain, never
willingly cooperating, exploded; I managed to ask
closed questions

About paintings and cars, proving myself village
idiot again - flabbergasted to know we still have
to study the seeming preserve of primary school
students - proving that reading children’s books
is the only way to survive adult life; so bizarre -
mere words

Fail to express the absurdity of deciding what
to ask spoilt officials during an imaginary
meeting with disgruntled French civil
servants…

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Other poems of ALICE SECOND

' Enneagram (Revised)

But no, nothing helped when I tried to be myself
reading old books, even a new one on sixth sense
said I should take heed of every single pain my
body produced to determine what I think

' Gurgling Stream [revised]

Knowing the little alien in my head was filled
with discontent went to French class prepared
full well with a treat for it, Offenbach played on
an earphone in only the left ear

A Myriad Heroines

Tonight sheer ecstasy and bliss, first discovered Strictly
Come Dancing, I lose myself in those dancing heroines,
Vin Diesel in the movie XXX stole the show encouraging
the individual to make a difference, Wizards of Waverley

A Surrreal Place

Escape, for me, is reading a book
based on Terry Pratchett's 'Thief of Time' where
perfect moments are kept in a glass palace – I have
decided to dream about 'perfect moments' and keep

' Continue To Live (Revised)

A sweet grey car replaced my noble Jeep,
it is utterly alien to me; oh, I always knew
this day would come, the Jeep's upkeep
was an extra expense we did not need

A Hundred Spells

Turandot, Puccini’s opera, told by stylised illustrations in a book
the heart of an Ice Princess frozen by the Moon Goddess, three
riddles posed to every Prince who wished to be her suitor on pain
of death if he could not get the answers right, beheaded by