Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Once upon this afternoon,
Before the other bull
Played his half-dried tunes,
I was sitting at zebra table
And ever the distracted you,
Gave me something new.
In your well strange innocence,
A roaming hand revealed
A slip of skin so white as sinless,
Beneath the crimson cloth cover.
And what a strange idea is this!
None, for I had thought it.
Underneath those bitter wits
I imagine clear sugar, somewhere, downtrodden.