Monday 13th June 2011, A. Palmer
or interview given my clammy jaw,
was lovely. At least for me.
For you, in my imagination,
it was, at best, sore-
invitation for impromptu soliloquy-,
as any exchange I have fares well
until I open my mouth.
The whole time, you had some chap
mortaring food order shells
from an age two years south
that you let skip over your serving cap.
The whole time, I had cries
from my stomach to the tune of “alien life!”,
whilst the chips wrestled butterflies for room.
I was lost in your Saturday eyes,
and the realisation I’d met my wife.
So before your manager’s detonation loomed
a fourth time, with dry lips
I popped the question:
“Will you tell me where the bathroom is, Claire?”
Rid of my cowardice and chips,
but not the butterflies, the test run
was aborted and I left without looking, knocking over a chair.