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Pathetic fallacies of a pigeon fancier
There it is, buried in a stack of books
faded royal blue, haphazard and haggard.
Coupled with our last supper, patatas bravas and whitebait,
was the second time; never as good as the first.
Amongst the covers was a Spanish mother speaking in local tongue,
a waiter happy to have found someone
and an English daughter pulling tales and scoffing prawns.
Foreign words drifted over her head as gracefully as pronounced
The time of death was five past four
I removed my watch to hold your hand across the table
and caught a glance as I placed it on the operating cloth
which the sauce marked like blood on surgeons scrubs.
The waiting room stayed silent,
the dull halogen light still flickered,
and the old lady knitted jumpers for the forthcoming rapture,
never looking down, her hands moved like cogs in a machine.
Rushed and roughly cut pages encased candle lit drawings.
Bleeding tails and congealed ink skulls, overturned and underwhelmed
by imprudent hands, hurriedly crammed minutes under their nails.
Our fingers and thumbs pulled apart leafs as if sodden wet in autumn.
