A reader’s poem: Champa

He worked in a bank
A drowsy little seaside town
Classified as dead or near enough.
Dressed in a suit
Brightened by a flamboyant pink tie
As much as he dared
Knowing as he walked down Western Road
There’d be shouts of “Champa”,

Controlling his mince
To a struttier pace
But knowing he’d still hear
Those taunting yells
Shouting at him as though
He were some anathema,
Shrieking like gulls
And haunting his dreams at night,

Humiliating, seemingly never ending
But anticipating weekends
To escape to Brighton.
Drinks at the Poison Ivy
That haunt of freedom
Far from his tormentors
Where his sexuality could twist and turn
At any corner, at any place he chose.

Hedonism his only manoeuvrement
From work.
High adrenalin
In his escapism,
He’d go down The Lanes
Go into The Kissing Fish
And buy Nag Champa
No more afraid

As he thought of himself
As that irresistible flower
Champa that flower of decadence
Dancing under an incandescent sky
And the scent of himself
Chsmpa
His only defence
Against the world

By Sherifa Rashidally