The Riddled Legs

That poem is of no use to Hedley, says Hedley's mother. He doesn't know French.

I know bon doo, says Hedley.

Bon doo wasn't in it, says Terence.

And bon doo is not French, says Hedley's mother.

Arthur rolls onto his back and sits up.

I haven't finished, says Hedley's mother. 

You've done enough, says Arthur.

But YOU haven't, says Hedley's mother. How about a poem for Hedley in English?

Okay, says Arthur. I'll say it in English, but it won't sound as good.

At least Hedley will understand it, says Hedley's mother. 

What what what? begins Arthur.

Wait! says Hedley's mother. You could at least write it down.

Sweezus comes over, in normal clothes.

We're heading off to the artists' bar, says Sweezus. Coming?

Sure, says Arthur, standing.

After he's translated the rest of his poem into English, says Hedley's mother.

Poem? says Sweezus. I thought the kid wanted the herring?

Not after what happened, says Arthur. 

What's the poem then? says Sweezus.

What what what? says Arthur.

Sweezus sniggers.

Hedley's mother records the recitation on her phone.

Ah happily he chose the good moment the herring went away, the prize emerges from the riddled legs of the poet, won by Hedley, says Arthur.

Like, what was it, glass? asks Sweezus.

What was what? asks Arthur.

The prize that came out of your legs, says Sweezus. 

The poem, says Arthur. It came out of the pain in my legs.

Shit yeah, says Sweezus. How are they?

I'll probably get scars, says Arthur.

Don't pick the scabs, says Sweezus. 

It's harder to pick scabs on the back of your legs, says Arthur.

Yeah I guess you don't see them, says Sweezus.

They head off to the artists' bar together.

Well, says Vello. Is Hedley happy with his poem?

No, says Hedley. There's something wrong with it.

It's certainly peculiar, says Hedley's mother.

That's Arthur for you, says Vello. But what's wrong with it, Hedley?

It sounds like the prize was his legs, says Hedley. 

No Hedley, says his mother. The prize EMERGED from his legs. It's a poetic device called compression.

Indeed, says Vello. But Hedley, the poem is yours and it has your name in it. That is something.

I wish I'd chosen the herring, says Hedley.

Even Terence looks sympathetic.