Almanac Poetry: ‘Who Shat in the Kids Pool?’ – Tommy Mallet

 

Who Shat in the Kids Pool?

 

Who shat in the kids pool?
Which of these seven little fuckers?

 

Was it the girl with Down syndrome?
Her and her minder only spent five minutes in the water.
She looked confused,
everyday children laughing, clowning around her.

 

Or is that too obvious?

 

Poor girl, always
looked at sideways,
blamed for furniture scratches,
spilt cereal,
Vietnam, Korea, the economy –
which is basically fine,
but a standard fall-back for people to blame
for their unhappiness.

 

Who shat in the kids pool, damn it!?

 

Was it that everykid. White, dark hair, skinny;
a driftwood boy,
destined for a driftwood life?
His boring kid brother?

 

It’s often the dull ones,
the obvious,
who think shit is funny.

 

 

Who shat in the kids pool?
I’ll have gastro for days!

 

 

Was it the truck driver, all big and hairy,
sick of the clichés,
nobody knowing it’s his wife that’s the aggressive one.
He just wants some peace,
under flavour of beer.

 

A solid, uncomplicated moment.

 

Who shat in the kids pool,
you bastard!?

 

 

Was it the housewife,
determined to charge a bargain
on Black Friday?
Elbowed, pillar to post, by other housewives,
and fine young gentlemen.
People who believe in hype, in $2000 phone
upgrades,
brand sneakers,
wanting to feel like hunters,

 

living life believing coffee’s outrageous!

 

 

Look at her, exhausted, nursing wounds,
without her half price fridge,
$10 spar accessories,

 

other feature items,

 

the defeated, realising their station,
so tired.
Who shat in the kids pool!?

 

You low life, classless,
motherfuckers!

 

 

Was it my kid?
It couldn’t be, I was watching,
and everybody knows their own kid
can do no wrong.

 

 

Was it the writer, the Indigenous jackaroo,
the feminist, the misogynist,
Marxist,
coatrack girl, waitress,
busboy,
the burly apprentice in short shorts with
fashionable moustache and haircut?

 

The poet?

 

All of us in here,
murmuring, leaving water marks,
un-content.

 

Who shat in the pool, man!?

 

The arsehole
who cut me off
getting here!?
The moron driving with high beams on
during the day?

 

The baker, candle stick maker, high flying exec,
secretary, old man who was once thought of
as something other than an old man,
the gambling addict,
adulterer,
porn star, barman, commuter,
computer repair man, fuck him, anyways!

 

Was it you?

 

WHO SHAT IN THE KIDS POOL!?

 

 

I still think it was the truck driver! The fuck!
Look at him, overalls on, surrounded by oil stains,
boots waterlogged,
just wanting

 

to be left alone,
playing poker with his mates.

 

WHO! SHAT! IN! THE! POOL!?

 

 

Was it me?
Did I have one of those blackout moments?
Am I shitting on everybody?
The nameless, faceless masses
that live for
tv commercials,
screeching morning DJs,
cities,
these awful places?

 

Learn to swim, kid!
Learn quick,
and let’s get back to the big surf
near home,
that you have to walk down
deserted cliffs to get to

 

and be free.

 

 

Fish shit in that water,
but nobody cares.

 

 

 

 

 

 

More poetry from Tommy Mallet can be read Here.

 

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

 

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