Before you left, you struggled.
Making me your endeavor.
Fed me wine & flattery.
You bid me goodbye.

You said you never use the phone.
Am I going to be waiting?
My ash tray is so packed now,
Hope thinned down by smoke.

I sat by the telephone
For the last time yesterday,
Drinking your red moscato.
I am done with you

I became unexpectedly aware
of a
magnet in my chest.
an anchor under my
breast bone.
soft, quiet, almost
unnoticeable.
until later pondered alone
in a dark room.

your polarity,
being opposite naturally,
drew me slow
through the aisles in
the theatre
past people carrying
jackets
into a park
where city stars
were streetlights and
our human discoveries
were serenaded
by the spring song
of homeless men pushing
carts up the street.

As our magnets gradually
synched
I felt the heavy slide and click of
understanding
coded into songs and on the fronts of
cards

and when I let you-
I saw colours in
your kiss,
noting that some matched
your eyes.
I found home in
your arms.
like a final orientation...
like being on a road trip my whole life
without even knowing.

Became afraid.

Because really,
who understands love,
when they've never been properly
introduced?

it's cold

having tested the
boundaries of this
knowledge
my nose retreats
rough brushed felt
the most likely home
hidden behind the buttons of my jacket
and scarf
jam red, spilling
up over the collar
into the morning grey.

I squint up
the road past The
Rooster, down to the
bus hutch, barely containing
the  Asian nanny
with pink-hatted Precious

this bus is not for me
nor the next

I glance down at
the slip of paper
crumpled, dwarfed by
my mittens,
I thumb the coffee stain kissing
the blue of the ball point pen scrawl.

42.
was I even sure that
was a route?
the price?

no change chilling
in the pockets against my jeans
a bent fingernail against denim
reveals I've also
lost my pass.

8:58 now

maybe best to just walk.

what was I expecting?
that the meaning of life
would really cover my fare
on the next bus? the
self loathing brought on
only by subzero, interrupted by


the scratch of metal
on the concrete at
my boot tips

golden.
flat.
I have won.

that's more like it.
I'd rather travel by
glass elevator anyway.
If we're splitting hairs..

there's something about
'****'

not scatological.
the edge.

the sacred,
bitter, hit.

deliberate.

of someone saying it,
spitting the
syllable-

while wearing a stolen
black leather jacket
and red lipstick
stubbing a cigarette
and cursing sideways at
'men and their...'
back handedness.

from an artist's mouth...
maybe a woman's...

but the taste
it's like metal

it always cuts-
just right.

Oh, you have so much power
But you can't even see it
You could make her do anything
With a smile on her face
You could ask her anything
And she'd answer with her best quip
You could steal her heart
But she already gave it to you
--Giftwrapped-- With no hesitation
And you've held it hostage
Like the greedy boy you are