Thursday 16th June 2011, A. Palmer
With the sun begging the curtains be
undrawn to mother red wine eyes,
I had stirred earlier than usual
so I even ate breakfast that day.
The headlines were jovial,
I finally replied to that text message,
and the starlings had not spooked when I
hurled my last round of toast and honey to them.
Later, whilst Charles Mingus captured
Antibes all over again upstairs,
I had strolled through cherry blossom litter
en route to pleasant time-killing, and had stood
barely thirty yards away when it happened.
The brakes shrieked with the 1960 crowd
and the burning rubber was the sole thing
to have pierced my sense of smell since
my rare cup of coffee for the hangover.
A beautiful day to go, he had died
before I could process what I was witnessing,
before the hubcap had pulled up outside Mrs Bannister’s.