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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.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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