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wilde-about-oscarPoems
I burnt my hand on the laminator. You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins, Drinkable leather, Even though I couldn't smell them Over the tobacco from your clothes That slowly seeps into mine. I'd come outside with you for a cigarette A compliment,  maybe not to my lungs, But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus Take one more hit so I can laugh with you About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table. I have to keep up Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit. More so than those blunt scissors Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink, Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described, Goes well with fish. I can't imagine you crying, Though I'm sure you did. Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk, Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping. Your walk, a sound only comparable to A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed, A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step, All femur. Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry. Only there would you let yourself search, Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters, For a scrunched up tissue.
0
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
Tannins.
I burnt my hand on the laminator. You laughed, and continued to talk about tannins, Drinkable leather, Even though I couldn't smell them Over the tobacco from your clothes That slowly seeps into mine. I'd come outside with you for a cigarette A compliment,  maybe not to my lungs, But I don't mind letting my battered bronchus Take one more hit so I can laugh with you About the sommelier placing the wrong cutlery on the table. I have to keep up Sharpen my tongue, mind, wit. More so than those blunt scissors Which crawled through parchment and maroon ink, Mimiking the nice red from Chile it described, Goes well with fish. I can't imagine you crying, Though I'm sure you did. Turning away the sellotape-scarred wooden desk, Blistered from years of frantic Christmas present wrapping. Your walk, a sound only comparable to A bold child clambering up the stairs to bed, A heavy, determined, "I'm fine" step, All femur. Out to the tiny garden, more butts form compost for your vintry. Only there would you let yourself search, Rustling through your handbag, past papers and lighters, For a scrunched up tissue.
© 2011 Hannah Aoife
wilde-about-oscar
Written by
wilde-about-oscar
Irish
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
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