Arrival
I saw you standing tall,
the day after the day after you left,
wasting good breath.
Only tall because of those stiletto heels -
more plastic tentpole,
than academic colossus.
You were talking to the new boss
and beating off about their loss
all horsey and garrulous –
like anyone would give a toss -
packing your habitual whinny,
all nasal and tinny.
Go. Off into history hobble,
strutting like a tenth rate model,
in the left your phone
and the right, a paper cup, dripping foam
of some sickly Starbucks
delivered by motorbike.
Go. Take an overseas hike
and choke your future by the throat.
Here’s a whip-round - your best sicknotes
with no forwarding address –
I’d wish you success
but what I loved the best
was the arrival of the day you left.
