Punctured

Pop.

Deflation.

There,

I watch it seep out.

Moments earlier my pride

(fully intact)

Watched the hooded, benched figure do his morning ritual;

Waiting amidst the koru fumes of cancer

Where often he would

Reprimand me playfully for being so late,

But, early enough to catch the bus.

This morning, however, no cheerful smile, no purity in his eyes

Instead, a masked obsolescence perhaps stubbornly testing my patience.

A new program of thought; more silence, less gloating: more control.

Taken too far I thought.

The eye contact and a $5 note held out as our barrier

Carried its uncomfortable replays.

My ultramarine blue tights were dark wet,

My chequered grey heavy coat was cold; not stubbornly repelling moisture.

Likewise, my ultra marine blue umbrella sat as a Dadaist statement on my lap

The rain drops dripping down cold legs onto the bus floor;

A puddle of ego crawling shamefacedly away from its source.

Something was not right.

Why the $5 note? Why so awkward?

Why no talk, rather than less talk.

Had I taken this game too far?

Had I playfully reprimanded him once too many times

The lightness of his gloats, his talk

His lack of perception of me?

Had I after all my talk of context applying to personal attributes

Bypassed this oath to suit my own ego?

Had I refused to accept openly him climbing the ladder faster than me?

Refused to accept the incredible discomfort his family background brought me,

The incredible resilience he had as a consequence.

As the Wellington harbour washed past the abbreviated rain trickles on the window,

As I surveyed the grey domain with eyes washed anew with golden light

Pop. Deflated. There it was bright and clear.

The white elephant.

Devoid.