Mannequin thin, she studies the menu outside,
you ruche your top over a proved stomach,
return your gaze to his face
in time to catch the reflexive flick of his eyes
up and down the woman's body
whilst still yarning about ‘childhood Whitstable'.
Jolt like a small electric shock as
for a split second, he is a stranger
who took his pick of biker birds,
whistled strippers on friend's charity stag nights,
slipped like Flash Harry into that local newsagent
for under the counter mags.
No point now chilling the cappuccino and hot chocolate
by attempting a laddish ‘I saw you looking'
because you know he would not recall seeing her…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem