Tom Burgis - 'Coiled on the Lip'

Coiled on the Lip

Of the Left Bank, the theorist winced
and emptied the creases of his cravat
into the sunlight groaning over prone Parisiennes.

'Malaprop-is-ism', his tutee
had aptly blundered, cloistered in the rims
of his pince-nez, the scent of yesterday's
hash clinging to the bleached hair of her cheeks.

'Wednesday', he thought - two Sundays pivoting
around me like coy ballerinas,
one fat, the other nimble. . . and with that
sweat began to bring out his spine
on the lilac cotton of his shirt.

He rose to change his shirt and head for town,
when both knees mutinied and spilled him on the
ground.
He stood and wiped his face into a frown,
his copy of Le Monde afloat in the Seine.

© Tom Burgis