she carries and places
this morning at the edge
of her self maintained fence,
on the grass she cut yesterday
does not need a man.
She made it herself,
painted it blue. All must
be forward looking.
All things must be retro
or vintage chic.
gnaws a thigh bone on a trampoline
in her back garden. Its teeth bounce
as the calcium moves to and fro.
Inert tiny red electric car beneath
waits for the boy to take it to the fence
again where he never finds reverse. Gnaws.
(Previously published in Literati Magazine on Medium)
All The Girl's
behind the perfume counter
They wonder who she is
he buys for.
They dab some on his wrist.
He sprays or dabs scent on
those spring and summer flowers
that lack fragrance.
He remembers her this way.
lilies remind me of a woman's body I tell her, she looks offended, "One track mind, tut, tut, " she
says and laughs. I apologise, and she tips me a wink. "You know they're poisonous?" I nod.
"You've got some lily dust on your trousers. Come here." And she bends down to dust his upper
thigh. "Can't take you anywhere." When she rises her warm body in her thin spring dress
with its massive pink lip motif presses against him,
he inhales her new perfume and fragrant hair
and knows it will linger the rest of the day.
"Wine?" She proffers.
Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with "Rats for Love" and his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. His first chapbook was "The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. He has read his work on BBC Radio Bristol and had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in Clear Poetry, The Bees Are Dead, Live Nude Poems and others.