The Pastel Leather
Pushed each other round in shopping trolleys,
the cold steal rump - a peeling mirror on
the steaming hulks that shift us through the old path
as we dally cross-countries, smoke in our old vests.
grey ducks, arse jangling keys – the rhythm
that still turns on fluffed needles in faded
Ajax labels; the buckling of plastic wheels
on cobble and corrugated iron.
you’ ll meet us hanging to the wet lace of
a weathered shoe thrown on a garage roof,
our leathers fed on cooking margarine.
only we’ll curl back into the desk drawers,
where you can engrave your sentiment with
compass points, or today’s dinner token.
SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #31, JUNE 2005. ISSN 1479-425X