Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Hold That Blonde

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There was no night before
just the morning after.
From my pillow
she looked up, dishevelled.
A stray lock of hair hiding her eye.
We both smiled the
‘I’m thinking what to call you
‘cos I can’t remember your name’.
‘I have a small problem
with alcohol,’ she grinned.
‘Alcohol gives me
a small problem,’ I apologised.
Coffee was suggested.
I threw on my paisley dressing gown,
filled the pot,
rattled my Penguin cups.
I heard tippy toes
and the door close
as softly as cashmere.
Walking back to my bedroom
two steaming cups in my hand,
the afternoon belonged
to me and Veronica Lake.
Tim Wells

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