The ice evaporated on the hot concrete floor
A hot west wind blew foul across the crowded balcony And as the stiletto twisted to speed the woman away And as the cocktail dripped from his designer shirt All I could think about the scene was: That his wet clothes would dry out far more rapidly than his pride would heal. Comments are closed.
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PoetryOccasional dispatches of florid prose and metre. Archives
November 2013
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Copyright © Gerard Atkinson 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the owner is strictly prohibited.
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