The Friendship Zone

The Friendship Zone

Mirror, signal, starboard manoeuvre

smooth, with the wry humour

of battleaxe to cruiser holed in one.

Lay it on with a builder’s trowel:

that cosmetic ornamental smile,

press her, stagger hands

for the desired joint width.

 So, he’s been parallel parked,

without blessing or consent

bricked up with thick cement

in the friendship zone,

is what she blithely assumes

without a care in the world

this girl; only some churl

would scowl as she whistles

her no nonsense song:

Is hydrated lime really necessary?

Bitter lemon better by far

before leaving the safety of the car.

No, nothing’s wrong.

Safe lies he within the painted lines,

tainted, in faded shades of flag white,

soiled by burnt tyre scuffed grit

boxed in and there he silent sits,

reading text and tinder messages

with sardonic smirk: Dobson,

eyeing cars on either side

too close to risk opening doors,

such schemes would surely scratch,

certain dent, prevent, hinder the cause

against cinder loneliness.

Can he sit here forever, though?

Well now, but why even try,

for there she fanciful flies

outward bound

one million measured miles

above and beyond the parking lot,

ears blocking, mind rotting,

creaming she in clotted blood:

for it’s better to travel in hope

than arrive, with permission to land,

then open thighs upon demand.

But boot free the tailgate,

because his wife doesn't understand

probably; their separate room to roam

until ever turning each to home

before the day burns too late,

drench her in smelting silver kissing

goodbyes, already he's gone missing

but left with promises to phone;
she sits in departures alone.

Until, no doubt, she backtracks with key,

and wretched plan to set him free,
unite and keep him company.
For is it you, or is it me?

Already long since flown,

Dobson seldom is heard to moan

at those parked inside the friendship zone.