As we go

Contact the poet: mwambani@hotmail.com


Monday 13 May 2013

Serial Waitress Phone Number Getter (Part I)


The gentle sting of his hand,
a diminishing slap on my arm,
was what remained

as I leant against the urinal,
and thought of him heading north.
The last image,

a hopeful embrace
with a foxy chick
who was never going to put out,

and I was disappointed
and pleased in the same moment.
And in the morning

when he returned my scabby
shaving brush,
we discussed the border

in conspiratorial tones,
as she passed
in a cloud of perfume,

and we shook
as if it were the last time,
as we usually did.

John H Davies
12th V 2013

No comments:

Post a Comment