Jenny

 

Jenny

 

And I’ve been staring so hard at one single tree

for these many years, made painful excavation,

looked vainly for signs of its previous perfection

methodical in study of calluses, knots and debris

 

I quite forgot there’s forests out there still to see

unsullied, like you and maybe me. Here though,

disaster, circle centred by ghost target crossbow

in cherry red as heart’s prey. Jangle useless key

 

deep pocketed, fidget fingering, verge side cold

beneath shady summer’s yellow sycamore leaf,

watch juggernaut’s thunder hauling boxed lives

of tupperwares unaware of pistols and blindfold,

 

he is, even now, sparking up that last cigarette.

But crossing the road, a vision all in pinky black

distance, dodging bullets, scrutinising my back,

all hips, lips and busty; me assessing any threat

 

as she pigeon coos, from down past, my name,

rolling her consonants wet, around tart tongue

like sec champagne, because she wasn’t wrong

and she knew it was me; I still looked the same

 

even from several years distance. If rolling tyres

had tread deep grooves in my more beaten face,

well she smiled anyway, reached across to trace

where a line might guide travellers back to fires

 

thought drenched. A real girl, straps and curves,

deep valley eyes highlighted in sceptical shadow

black, etched, who knows which way she blows,

but life flashbacks in that instant, all active verbs

 

murmured in sighs, reliving all that cut and thrust

shows with sly looks, hot breathy words, rigid tips

cutting through moist pink top and if it should rip,

well there would be willing hands she might trust.

 

She told me she could’ve fixed this car, no sweat,

left with a wink and a promise of some other day;

who dares say? Still if angels are but a dying tree

we gaze on in futility, all forests live on in Jenny.