SHARPIES AND SKID MARKS

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SHARPIES AND SKID MARKS

The sharpies I just bought
bleed through and ruin the next page.
Then there is the surprised look
of a woman who came
when she didn’t think she could
only to find that I had already left.
My pen freezes on the sound of
passing cars.
The rain drops splash
on the shinning cobble stones
as the leaves flutter down
to rot on the way
to the storm sewer.
Leonard whispers poetry
in my ears
as a sea of umbrellas
pass in the rhythm
of a fast disappearing lunch break.
The dominant specie
groans and roars and hisses
past on errands
to the unknown future.
I need a new pen
this one is rough on the page
and running out of ink.
This will change at any rate
on the rack of the tyrant
with spell checker flashing
and left side nagging.
French on the sound track
smelling of tobacco
and accordion music
and the cold of this drizzle
creeps over my shoulders
as my ass
goes to sleep on the
wrought iron chair.
The tourists are nowhere in sight
having returned to their homes
to regale their friends
with pictures of the non-event
the tooting of the steam clock
on the hour or something close
to the hour.
ESL girls click up in their
spike heeled shoes
pulling down their umbrellas
and looking to see
who is looking to see.
My favourite young woman arrives
for work at this coffee shop.
She is a black Venus
of perfection.
But,
no matter how perfect we appear to be
we still get skid marks in our underwear
the same as everyone else.

©Copyright November 7, 2008 by John-Ward Leighton

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