I Watch Our Backs


the screech of her relentlessly
honed, chrome polished thighs
ignited our anti post-apocalyptic,
sizzling bedroom bonfire vanities.

a monumental discourse illuminated
our medieval mental manuscripts
as her meandering indulgence
flowed into my neck of the would have.

modern rocker vespers blitzed our
Saturday night shiv and live while the
domestic promise of the post-war
unwanted pregnancy product whose

name was probably not what it seemed
heralded a welfare state of dreams
that could not be broken before they
had been dishonestly vouchsafed.

the traumatised father of my last love
worked nights at the oil refinery.
she, an apprentice hairdresser, ditched
for the sake of her English ungrammar.

orange street lamps illuminated a snow
buried street of 1960’s falsified housing.
she meets me halfway and her mouth
has the taste of the last thing she licked.

she is my new girl and I am the teacher
of lost words yet merely a student of her
compulsory ceremonies of what she tells
me is the only acceptable proof of love.

and she takes me home with her where
we sit around the corner in that L shaped
living room and conquer new territories
while her mother crochets away the war.

© James Sapsard 2013

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