Sunday, 29 January 2017
Poetry 2017 / 022
on my own again
where the mist settles in the dip
of Penn Common.
Golfers curse the dog walkers, their shouts
lost in the glowering clouds
backlit by the sun
and the crenellated shadows of Hosking's tower
as Jack the Setter seeks a lost stick.
Who are you with tonight, I wonder,
what excuse will you give me
why you didn't come home?
Deadlines or office politics?
A drink with the lads in Accounts?
It doesn't matter anyway.
I have another life, too,
and whatever your story is,
I can smell his cock on your breath.