Wednesday, August 28

Afternoon Shift

is afternoon shift busier than this, a downpour
hauled a river against the kerbs going to
drains below

She had us on her table—numbered
—& she took our orders

dark eyes
I wondered how she lived
the things she ate for breakfast

(Aryan children next to us
holler their follies, fork or two
into a starter, piece together
parts of their days)

my Love
she how dare I smuggle
crumbs for someone who
makes tips
no ring

my maiden’s medusa
a mediterranean no doubt
hair bounces there; bobs

could’ve been a princess
if she’d a stayed in the village
from which her accent sung

on & on & on the rain fell awash with blurred
lines the ruptures of sliding puddles down North
Hill did fall

where is she to accuse me of
spending not nights in love
but nights typing.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blank Template By