Sunday 1st May 2011, A. Palmer
Did he, as the leader, really lead?
Or did he mistake breadcrumb for seed
innovation, deceived by her grief-borne greed
and coaxed along a merry path at speed
to desert pains? Gone.
He insisted she wouldn't have missed him.
He showed her scrawls she'd painted,
and directed movie scenes in his mind, tainted
with the slow
songs they'd danced to drunk and dainty,
until a spiced rum, not unlike her, fainted
whilst its blood shone
in his body like some alien confidence.
And he spoke to her in French,
like an infatuated teacher fallen from the fence.
she never allowed him to finish the sentence,
arrive at the word that sounded best when tense-
the clincher one-
before she kissed him.
The way she coiled herself around his core,
tugged and toiled and teased before
leaving him open-mouthed in request for encore,
told him she already knew more
than she let on,
so it shouldn't have been such a surprise consequence;
her letting go for the final time,
not allowing him to finish his sentence,
as he pleaded for one more crumb,
whilst her credits rolled.