Friday, 16 June 2017

poetry 2017 / 093

Third Fight

I don't remember
what our fight was about
dissatisfaction with the relationship
stagnation over the proximity
or the fact I was away all week
fingerbanging the girls from the art school
(or so you believed).
I recall we were in the park
(or maybe the cemetery)
a bench, anyway,
with you in your winter coat and scarf
and me in my motorcycle leathers.
You walked off,
home to your mother's
or to your friend Jude's.
I went back to Wolverhampton
where the parties went on all night
and smoked a joint on the tower block roof.

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