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.
No comments:
Post a Comment