Despair Eats From a Cold Plate

Despair Eats From A Cold Plate Despair eats from a cold plate It knows nothing except to fill its belly In this never-ending jaunt to Morden Lane Stenhouse Street and Swanscombe Road Drop another dollar bill on the counter Watch the waitress bend down to get it She writes on a tablet her phone number I call her when the sun is setting on Tuesday We meet for wine and cheese at a side café We stroll on Gunster Road and Haven Mews She puts her arm through mine and giggles She says there are brown roaches in the kitchen A couch made of Naugahyde sits in the moonlight Discarded shoes and intimate detritus scattered Snoring lovers under a soft blanket in the darkness Despair continues to eat from a cold plate