A Toffee Penny, Once Spent.
I don’t really mind your toffee penny.
I know people say it’s too plain
to dress in that gaudy yellow wrap,
you know, grouchy it’s a bit vanilla
and you’d expect a fistful of change,
but, for all that, it’s creamy enough
to roll it round your tongue like nipples.
I think it’s those montélimar
you’d find at the bottom of my tin,
stuck there like emotional cripples,
having bled chocolate from slit foil.
Chewing them is such thankless toil
once you scraped nougat off metal,
clagged unwanted under fingernails.
She’s looking at hers, freshly filed
into crimson points, all high heeled,
iced latte clutched and lung-punctured,
phone bleating in the other claw,
in tinted skin that one time glistered more,
hanging aimless at the office door:
‘you smell like my ex-boyfriend,
my lover, my significant other’.
You'd shrug and wonder where he went,
a toffee penny that she spent.
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