And I was the girl passed out on the stairs
and everyone knew me
in a roundabout way and whispers
went through me like knives, two, three, four
and bright as I was they all saw the blonde head
duck out of windows on sunny Sunday mornings
and cars with no shoes on, and sighed for me
prayed and laughed at me
"do you think that he loves you?
Because he doesn't and won't ever."
And now that I've left
I'm just a face
alone and exhilarated
dreaming of home and yet won't ever go.

Sherbet morning sky
orange juice sun glare
squeezes out
a flavour spectrum
of gelato delight
a sky to slowly **** upon.

© M.L.Emmett

She's complex,
not complicated.
She got her undergraduate degree at Yale,
doctorate at Harvard.
Her vocabulary is simple,
practices perfect diction
behind closed doors.
Her use of three & four-letter words,
telling me the things
she wants me to do to her,
is extraordinary,
actually quite lovely.

The scent of death
lingers for years
in a place

lodges in the soil
rots
and slowly compresses

composting down
deep down
in dirt

earth turns
seasons pass
time and space and silence

until the coiling roots
draw back again
and all that grows

from baby's tears
to blood red poppies
oaks and elms

bear testimony
to the forgotten
dead.

© M.L.Emmett

He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's

stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover

He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch

He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone

Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin

Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased

His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies

He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar

Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town

there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.

© M.L.Emmett