fiona sinclair

The Best Poem Of fiona sinclair

Women Of A Certain Age

Women of a certain age

In the shared taxi she has bagged the front seat
beside the Elvis pretty driver.
Reclines as if already on a sun lounger
When does his shift end? Which clubs does he go to?
Her voice says late 40s, Louboutin heeled,
he giggles like a bashful girl, claims Little English.
But she has key phrases and gestures expressive as deaf alphabet,
so they manage a slow dance chat all the way into Side.
Two weeks sleeping in the sun all day like a cat,
evenings accessorised with scotch and Marlboro,
she will out- gyrate the belly girls,
that night's young man tip- toeing from her room
at 6 am clutching a hundred lira tip.
So disembarking at our hotel first,
she smirks back at my silently smiled You go girl.

In a Side side street I am snared by
cheap eye brow threading.
As the young man cats cradles cotton,
You have beautiful eyes, Are they contacts?
Years since wolf whistles stopped,
I shed 25 years at his compliment.
Studying more than the shape of my eyebrows
he reads, middle aged, British, alone,
begins to offer a la carte services
I can lick your pussy; bang until you bleed…
takes my laughter behind hands as coy fan coquetry.
I lead him on with empty Yes' half believing,
despite this town's fake Rolex, Mulberrys…
his I will not charge because you are pretty.
But at his sudden What time shall I come to your hotel tonight?
I thrust 20 lira at him, escape with a savvy 50 year olds
bad cheque promise to call the number on his card later.
Scurry back to You should not be allowed out alone.

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