Friday, July 5

Untitled

Every Thursday
without fail
the—sometimes—
moonlit grey
fire escape

they,
(bannistered,) take turns
in their romantic squabble

Her flat because her voice—
‘I’m fuckin sick a-this’
sountracked by July night
so soft & susceptible to
tiffs

I’s sitting there
with a sweaty beer &
a cigarette

(no smoking no pets)
no lovers
he
pleads

A little still—‘I’m gan’
she’s now by the bushes
nearest me
the side of the building
wrapped up in satellite
dishes You sobs can hear her

without fail
like clockwork
Thursdays are
for them.

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