Frances Runs Away
Frances exits the bistro.
Her napkin falling
onto the tablecloth,
it flutters down in slow motion;
a snow-goose onto a red desert.
‘Not a good way to break-up Frances,
not cool’.
On the pavement, high-heels clacking.
Frances running,
the backs of her heels bleed,
tendons bolting her onward.
On hind legs
a restaurant chair tries to follow.
A thunderclap
as the napkin lands.
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