Lactose Intolerance

The moped crawls onto the pavement
Stalking its prey: Me.

White mug in 
white windbreaker

dancing to Red Velvet’s Russian roulette
Ah, ah, yeah, don’t leave me.
Lifting my hand to send bab a selfie.

The phone gets grabbed.
Pint of milk in my other hand.

Bodies have an instinct independent
of thought,
in times like this, await instruction:
“Don’t drop the milk”

the plastic carton whacks
my assailants arm.

Moped takes off.
Headphones, pluck.

Whole time running I pray
they don’t slow down.*

Give chase till no one at
the bus stop can see me.

Of course this happens
after a double shift.
on my own street.

Charge it to the game.
Get home, disable the phone
before any sex tapes leak.

The price paid
for dancing in the street,
wearing bright colours.
Ultimately, looking easy.

The last time this happened
I was eleven. From then on
on practiced Invisibility.

A perception of dignity
at the expense of living.

Bab says
“Can’t blame yourself,
sometimes it’s
just the way life goes”

Suddenly
all the years spent invisible
have a price of their own.

She puts the kettle on, and
I take stock of what I’ve lost
And what I’ve got.

”Have we run out of milk?”
“Nah, don’t worry, I picked some up”

*There were two guys
on the moped, by the way