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
