Simon Bridges

Eight Till Twelve - Poem by Simon Bridges

I could see love with my ears closed whilst
watching a conversation one word in front,
opposite a young farmer orders a dirty pint,
I'd never met one,
later I found his constitution
spread across a tiled floor.

As the takings are unrolled to three metres,
déjà vu takes me to a time I had not trusted myself,
secretly, a twenty one milligram patch leaches the
drug of necessity into my breast,
and I favour my nails to pistachio,
and a nick in the waitress's tights
to channel nintey-six post watershed.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Poem Edited: Wednesday, October 5, 2011

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