Sunday 2 June 2019

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.





2 comments:

  1. I am glad you liked and thanks for taking time to comment - of course you have grrrreat taste x

    ReplyDelete