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.
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