Strolling home through a sudden
rainstorm hot Sunday
August night, soon as drenched
as the skinny goth running to the lifts in
black lips and heels past the Spanish girl
in her silver coat and numb cigarette gaze
Electric air infiltrates the blood, raises old wounds
along the road, an open door
inside, a warm room I would care to shelter
judging by the music playing there would be
a firm handshake, fine wines and elegant snacks
perhaps they had planned a barbecue
As the music fades and my nose drips
you may guffaw in my face, and
choke on your vegetable samosa, but
please recall the eternal law that states:
'No one can hold a candle to the Dan'
No comments:
Post a Comment