‘It doesn’t matter’, by Fougasse (Cyril Kenneth Bird), 1943.

It doesn’t matter that I lost my shoes
It doesn’t matter that I don’t sit still at the table
It doesn’t matter that I spilt daddy’s coffee all over the carpet
It doesn’t matter that I always leave the door open when the heater’s on
It matters that my leggings are just the right length, below the knee.

It doesn’t matter that I didn’t do my reader
It doesn’t matter that I dinted the car with my bike
It doesn’t matter that I speak rudely on the phone to grandma
It doesn’t matter that I bang my brother’s head against the wall
It matters that my milk is above the princess’s eyes on my cup.

It doesn’t matter that I keep my hair in knots
It doesn’t matter that I wear the same undies for six days
It doesn’t matter that I go to school inadequately dressed (and late)
It doesn’t matter that I have a bedroom the state of which is hardly indistinguishable from Christchurch’s Red Zone
It matters that we don’t always do bread and wine at church.

It doesn’t matter that I never flush the toilet
It doesn’t matter that I then leave the tap running
It doesn’t matter that Angry Birds are rotting my brain
It doesn’t matter that I use half a bottle of sauce on a single sausage which I only then half eat
It matters that I can miss three bars on the monkey bars, and that I get to show dad how cool I am.

© Jason Goroncy
26 May, 2012