Furtive Meeting

Furtive meeting We sat in the park a packet of fags a bottle of wine, on the back of a napkin I wrote her a poem about love. While struggling to find the right word I hardly knew her, she fell asleep, wine of good quality can be strong. I counted my cigarettes had five left saw the tempting light of a night bar left her sleeping, went and had a drink. Coming back, she had left my poem written on the clean side of a napkin was on the ground torn to shreds.