just a glove, which everyone takes off
with well honed mimicry,
knuckles exposed, brittle *****
in their lack of symmetry, groaned
as they all have a hand in correctly mocking
all the above

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

o’hara should have
been a little more careful
on the road
perhaps wasn’t his thing