Confession

Photograph by George Angus

We hear the beginning.

And see the end.

Only occasionally do we witness the middle where everything happens.

 

It starts with worn-out pick up lines, shaken by the dozen out of a box:

“Hi gorgeous! How was heaven when you left it?”

“Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?”

“Aside from being sexy, what else do you do for a living?”

 

On and on, right under our window.

Up to a point where we lean out and shout: “Please! Enough already!”

 

The end is messier. No, really.

Like in dirty.

Where you can only explain it as a mixup of vowels and bowels.

Poetry in motion of sorts, I guess.

 

You are lucky if you catch him in the middle.

Unaware, totally taken up by being smitten. 

Leaning against the love of his life, his soulmate, his purpose for living.

Whispering short affectionate phrases, staring into the eyes staring, nibbling on a beautiful forehead.

 

What puzzles us is how he knows there is love to be found in the bakkie mirror in the first place.

Or do the same principles apply that humans follow when they are out looking for a bar?

Somehow they sniff it out.

 

All I know is that I’m tired of cleaning up the results of Rock thrush courting.

I have no scruples in ending a blossoming relationship by covering the mirrors with plastic bags.

 

Not true. I feel like a hypocrite doing that.

Because I am well aware that his heart is filled to the brim with love.

And even with his perfect match removed he will sit on fence, or branch and sing.

Some of the most beautiful songs I know.

Only I, smugly only hear ballads now, offered to me.

For which I have fallen.

George