|
|
Skin She's
In
And that black skirt stuck to
her honeyed brown thighs
Her pretty thirty something skin pressed up against,
her glowing, sweet knowing age hmm the skin she’s in.
Round red pressure marks on her thighs that never parted.
Imagine us decorating, flecks of white paint clinging,
to her skin, pleading for those sweet, coy ringlets
to fumble round eyes, embrace innocent hurt knowing cheeks.
Her breasts flattered against a clinging, still crumpled blouse.
yawns, stretches, ripples creased through a stiffened imagination.
Holiday pastels, workforce greys, smart shirted boors,
the ruddy pink businessman, talking big deals, reading tits n arse
until his phone rings, “Gavin mornin! ah you've spoken to the great man
yes he's furious”, and then blathers on until he and I both see
twenty Mongolian horsemen gallop up all the wrong sides of the track
His sheer panic is enough to make me laugh and snap right on back.
And that mobile phone, it brings out the best in you
as you flutter, giggle and flirt at the voice within.
Smiling so high, ah I see you've healthy gums
rising and rolling through the meadow of platform four
the black and the gray dying in the dawning
shrunk into their unkempt copse of contented decrepitude
as I cower and kneel much as Menelaus, gasping into my espresso
©
Dam Robinson
Back to top
|
