It followed me for years like a keen biographer or, better,

as if there were a finishing line. It’s always been a question

of either me or the joke. In school, it sparked amusement so

I let it be. It moved country with me, learnt a new language.

Almost a voyeur, it longed to observe my eyes locking

other men’s on trains, to descend in the blind night of bushes

and careless car parks. At Xmas gatherings, it sat at the table

like an uncle, as my father did all the voices in the joke.

It is so easy to kill someone in a joke. Over the weekend,

at the cinema, its gaze lingered a couple of rows away

from my boyfriend feeding me nachos, hefty with cheese.

It’s in the neighbourhood now. When it caught up with me,

all it said was Fags! and then beeped so I also raised my two

fingers in the air and the joke drove away in its oversized car.