Monday, 10 December 2012

Mr Writer

Mr Writer, I have watched you with your blank inch of cigarette
blowing blue air at the moon, one fluttering streetlamp
lighting you in your crowd of smoking-girls, their slim legs
bending like lilies. You shrug in your coat, suck in nicotine,
tender veins quiet with chemicals.
Streetlamps hum between laughter.
The girls light their umpteenth cigarette, dying for a rhyme
and a kiss, thinking you a wordsmith, the unbitten man, uninterested.
I drain my glass and cradle it like a small skull.
Drunk enough, I could ask it a question
about you or the meaning of Life.
How the alcohol reds cling on and on 
like the night wrapped around a blue rooftop,
the girls open-mouthed with laughter, or you being lyrical,
breathing smoke to a huddle of stars.