Timeshrink
She walks into the bar
but it’s eight years and the
spitting eyes are quieter
fragmented souls seem gently whole
and long legs now stretch her jeans.
She talks of her mother, brother, things.
I listen with practised half-smile
raised eyebrow, quizzical glance
trowelling maturity all over her
as I ask the bouncer
to turn the music down.
She gives me a lift and as we stop
I mention the million memories
we haven’t mentioned
and getting out remember to ask
what she’s doing these days.
I’m a therapist now she says.
As she drives away
her hair is fair and long again
waist sweet and small
and the night is dense, dark, hard.
Like a wall.
Ken Champion - Goodmayes |
