Wearing a Drip-Dry Memory

Your hands lingered as prints upon my mind. I became a glove for your love. I gave you time, I gave you my tongue so you could speak a moment of ecstasy. You gave me Cauliflower cheese, the only meal you could cook well. Then when you were done with my squishy love you left on a bus, bound for West Ham, left and did not wave back from its people stuffed windows. That was back then when cakes were left out in the rain, when poets wore bell-bottoms when flower power flexed its stems with blond muscle men. No beaches in Tottenham, the parks probably still are municipal mud baths. I recall it rained for days in our love-stained apartment. London often chooses to live in small puddles of loneliness. The mattress we had inherited, survived to moan on and on.