Despair Eats From A Cold Plate
Despair eats from a cold plate
It knows nothing except to fill its belly
In this never-ending jaunt to Morden Lane
Stenhouse Street and Swanscombe Road
Drop another dollar bill on the counter
Watch the waitress bend down to get it
She writes on a tablet her phone number
I call her when the sun is setting on Tuesday
We meet for wine and cheese at a side café
We stroll on Gunster Road and Haven Mews
She puts her arm through mine and giggles
She says there are brown roaches in the kitchen
A couch made of Naugahyde sits in the moonlight
Discarded shoes and intimate detritus scattered
Snoring lovers under a soft blanket in the darkness
Despair continues to eat from a cold plate
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