Kensington

There were paving stones,

a menu in a glass case,

steps descending.

You were with her,

smoking among checkered tables,

trembling candles.  Wine.

Our eyes met over shoulders,

forkfuls of spaghetti. 

Her back to me, his to you.

It didn't matter what you were saying.

Your occasional smile spoke

between gestures.

I wondered:  which flat

you would return to; if you had a cat;

what album you would choose.

Had I known it was you

I would have stopped for a kiss

on the way out.

tk/ May 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth...if he only had a cat... *giggle* 

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*painting by Edward Hopper, 1922

Waiting

Beautifully esoteric rendering by R.A.D. Stainforth ...

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My earliest memory 
is a summer nap.

The box fan in the window
does not drown the French horn
moaning down scales, 
from the house next door.

Underbelly full, 
I lie helpless
on a pale duvet;
like tiny willow leaves,
my eyes tremble
to stay open.

I have time on my hands;
small fleshy vessel, waiting.

tk, July 2012

image: Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano

Scent

R.A.D. Stainforth contemplates scent ...

Summer nights,

I wake to your scent,

stubborn as marigolds,

near the bureau

that kept your lipstick

and perfume.

I try to dream again,

but stumble

bleary-eyed,

to the toilet.

My face finds yours,

cold in the mirror,

your breasts

heavy in quicksilver;

you smile, dab a bit

behind each of my ears.


tk/April 2012

image: Alex Stoddared

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