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Aug 2020
After we have sweated the night away
it has come to this, myself, yourself,
a lamppost on the corner of Handler and Wilde
stained with the **** of many a dog.

Your cheeks, rivulets of black,
happy tears you said, your friends
for now and perhaps time to come, dancing,
heels like typewriter keys on the gym floor.

All Macarena-d out, panting
as though a Collie after a sprint in heat,
your found me two-thirds of a diet Coke down,
lopsided bowtie, pentagon hole in the shirt.

No kiss, but small talk. A botched triple jump
into the limo, hands linked, already spooling
back through the hours, the slow dance,
the walls dappled blue, a memory like all before.

Now the kiss. Brief. Nothing more.
This too, a memory. For a second,
marriage and children lucid theatre in my head.
The reality something else. I head home,

you wave and we're gone.
Written: April 2020.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time several months ago that I forgot to upload. Feedback welcome. Please note that 'Macarena' refers to the song of the same name, while 'Handler' and 'Wilde' refer to the writers Daniel Handler and Oscar Wilde.
Reece AJ Chambers
Written by
Reece AJ Chambers  31/M/Northamptonshire, England
(31/M/Northamptonshire, England)   
112
   Nat Lipstadt
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