His face is like a teabag floating in a mug
Saturated and sloppy, the texture of
Yesterday’s crumbled custard cream
Melting in liquid too hot to chug,
Soft as French cheese with an immaculate fringe,
A nightshade shoreline lapping mocha coloured skin.
Tightly fitted, sharp as tailored trouser legs,
No room for error, drink up the dregs of
Black Cappuccino froth that clump atop
The petrol cap capping an over filled shopping bag.
Squeeze the plush avocado shell,
So ripe that the flesh falls away and
Only the skin remains, taut over a slurry of
Muscle and bone,
Snail shell eyes clamped shut, no one’s home.
Probs won’t feel the vibrations of his ringing phone.