Saturday, 16 April 2016

April Poems 2016/16

Midnight Chips

It was cold in the night café.
An old Victorian glasshouse
panes mirrored by darkness
steamed by boiling kettles
and a semi-rusty espresso machine.
He smiled at us, indulgent of young customers
though I suspect I was older than he.
She had hot chocolate, I, tea,
though the draught from the door
was enough to raise the flesh on my stockinged legs.
We shared chips, cooked fresh in the microwave
behind the till, though she liked too much tomato
sauce in her tea and sugar on her chips
but she talked about art and music
and wrote Gothic poetry in purple ink
on sheets of graph paper she nicked from school.
It was two in the morning when I walked her home
and kissed her in the darkness
of an underground car park.
It took her by surprise because she wasn't into me
but she laughed anyway, clicking her tongue stud
against her cheek as she walked away.

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