It seems it’s she’s who’s died to heal his private world
and her fingers know the colour of his eyes, lucrative
as they present themselves under a pale sky
as if in apology for being good. She’d found him
on a bench crying for the life that’d oozed away
in a time once bright and quick, with a good dose
of pretty tipple, self-confidence around the mouth,
a pleasure to be a part of, but she never heard
or felt him enter, warm as a sunned cat. Acting
was her teenage dream, but can she now play mother
as she reaches in her bag for something for his smoker’s
cough? This musing makes me feel like my lighter self,
she explained, the corners of her mouth trembling.
It’ll still be warm when she returns in the morning,
wet from a night of it, heavy in her black dress.
The cock can tell the weather’s going to change.
Ian Seed
.