Moving On
A handful of change cut loose
from his pocket - chucked casual,
on the
shelf, with old, old hands.
Rattles baggy memories in his head
every night, of the living and the dead.
Damp spring night of fully clothed sex
neon mid
eighties, no time then
to unbutton the buckle
just unzip with husky chuckle.
who’d had it hard and written
all the time he’d been down there
fighting, till his tongue aching
cut through her well meant faking
love-struck,
the farewell smiles
catch reflection of the child
caught in memory’s amber,
morning frosts and breezes mild.
Grinning he sets to with an old brush,
stiff scraping dried up boot polish
cake, from the bottom of rusty tin,
rubbing black leather slip-ons, cracked
reflection shaded and looking back.
Sunny afternoon, matured into evening,
absent husband not quite into leaving
presumed missing, till who cares past four,
dead beneath wet knickers drawer.
Sue saw service and might yet see more,
as he turns up panting at the door.
She couldn’t make it up the stairs
her busy tongue caught him unawares
and let him in then and there.
Held his hand out to kiss goodbye,
to catch swift moments in his eye,
summer sun burnished gentle skies
as solo wheels in flashing magpies.
Raises one eyebrow in ironic salute,
at dusky fogging mirror.
Strip tosses his laundry into drum,
chipped china between finger and thumb
sipping static warm twilight’s tea
contemplates the rolling sleepless city.
Autumn mornings, the dew still rises
somewhere - and what of you?
Hot grabbed his throat by silken tie,
she had even yet still to buy
and rubbed his fingers up her thigh.
Bind her wrists with gauzy scarves,
breast open paths of trembling leaves,
and take her wide beneath canopied trees.
Can all this love possibly be wrong
if he makes it up as they go along?
Yet time comes to sing another song,
well, buckle up and move quickly on.
No comments:
Post a Comment