Study of Fists IV

This morning, as I strode to the polling station, I was inconvenienced by two errors of judgement. In my haste, I had left the house and committed to the journey even though I was aware that my nose had started to bleed. I had sensed subconsciously, too, that I was not wearing a belt and that my shirt was not thick enough to serve, when tucked in, to hold my oversized trousers up.

But I still closed the gate behind me, and so all the way, as I greeted people, I was holding things up. My hands were anchored in my pockets, and I was sniffing and tilting my head back slightly. Without tissues, I was forced to use the edge of my index finger to wipe away the blood, and I noticed the red stain, as did the returning officer, when he handed me my voting slip.

My fist had been a gallows derrick in my pocket, where I am hung, and was now scowling red. When I got home to my wife, the blood was still wet,
And the cauliflower she was boiling, pre-prandial, smelt to me like a PE changing room in a primary school, plimsolls and faint of sweat.