It lurks in the corner of the PE changing room,
clings to the soles of a ginger boy’s pumps
scalds the cheeks of the fat girl made to shower,
share her towel. It reeks of wet woollen blazers,
under-arm odour of cheap nylon shirts.
For fun, it sprinkles scurf on your shoulders
spreads acne, eczema, craterous warts,
burns your mouth like horseradish
blasts in your ear You waste of space!
It spreads like a rash all over your body
leaves the back of its hand imprinted on your face.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jane Salmons would be
pleased to hear them.