Lonely Heart


How often, when she walked that route
through shivering huddles of smokers
and the chinking, steamed-up restaurants
or stopped to text, hot-faced in her skirt

and leaned for a moment at the harbour wall
had she thought about herself, penned into a small box:
4 desperate lines between the vinegar-stains
of yesterday’s newspaper, stuffed away behind the globes

of page three’s Lucinda, her lean legs
now wrapping a heap of battered sausage and chips.
She thought about how she’d replied to his text,
nervously, let her hands grow hot on herself

and crawled to where he said he’d be, in the backseat
of a taxi, imagined herself touched gently, grinning, his hand
coasting her thigh beside the slow smack
of windswept shore. She watches now, brunette–

53, caring, eyes baby-blue, seeking a male
for long romantic walks and maybe more. The tide
washes gently at old shingle, plastic bags,
a sheet of newspaper circling the wind forever.


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