Monday, August 18, 2008


December. Another Monday.
If we mattered they’d have to feel guilty
Bright-faced, her eyes darting.
A brush with drowning
He could see her in his rear-view mirror, long and slim
Her thoughts were filling the silence
There was darkness and a silence she could feel
It was “Teach Yourself Flying”
She was shoeless and massaging one of her black-stockinged feet
They went down to the canteen via the back stairs
You measured harassment by the square yard
They heard a quick rush of men’s laughter
My Billy is an angel
The rounded-down sterility that came from a ball-point pen
They were brewing up behind the bar
She was a tallish size twelve with shining black hair
A thin air job
She wished that she was running, right now
Remember, God sent me.
They can do it to us because we’re nothing.
This is the one. She likes me.
She lived alone on a quiet estate of Barratt houses
Perhaps she had smelt something burning
Thank-you for your co-operation
We’re looking for a man in a dirty raincoat
They were bound to talk about men
Her hands at ten-to-two on the wheel
They parked in a side-street
A massive oak tree
Sunlight flashed off bone
He’s magnificent!” she said.
Four or five hundred yards away to their left
The temperature had finally crept above zero
A dark green sheen on the grass
She twitched her nose, sniffing at the air.
I feel shitty if you must know
From the bushes he saw the two of them
He was in a Nike shell-suit and a pair of New Balance trainers
Then the women turned and walked away
He felt something cold snap around his wrists
We don’t fancy the paperwork
The parking’s crap in central Richmond
Man-hating would do for now.

No comments: