It wasn't the first hair which
protruded from your right nostril,
snaking its way
into the outside world and liking
what it saw so much that it decided to
set up stall and stay;

it wasn't the fact that
at the same time as Someone
started to number
the hairs on your head, your ears became
potential donors for
follicle transplants;

it wasn't even the slippers
with the peep-hole toes and
the stuffing dropping whispy bits of
grey fluff as you walked (plodded)
nor was it wearing tracky
bottoms to a 'smart casual'.

The 'it wasn't's swarm delicately
into my mind, butterfly-soft,
warm-fuzzy, sans-problèmes, floating
in the calm and peaceful fluid
of my brain. Until the manicured front lawn
blasts them right into the hornets' nest.