Ears are listening
In glades of the waxing tideline on the shales
I sit aside him like we’re destined
to be together, but
I’m barely past the drinking age.
It doesn’t have to be so serious, does it?
7 years on
watching cityscape processions waft along;
vapors white, exhumed like smog from those coal chimney stacks.
My heels clacking against the sidewalk;
my stockings pulled up in the reflection of an empty shop window;
my eyes adjusted if ever I’m thought to be watching oncomers.
5 years on
he won’t stop crying
but I do love him.
9 years on
a bottle of red,
some finger food,
maybe that cheese later on.