Tuesday, 4 April 2017

poetry 2017 / 042

Returned Purse

He looks like he's dancing
one foot sliding back
to rest comfortably on a square base.
A deflected punch
hip slide, throw
his momentary partner suddenly airborne
before slamming to the floor
with a slap of the hand
turned over, wristlocked.
One free hand reaches for a phone;
summons a uniformed officer.

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