Arms rusty, folded, resting
Cross-legged on the soft swell of a middle aged paunch,
A long term construction project,
Facilitated by fried breakfast, brunch and lunch,
I bet you could put your ear to his belly button
And hear the sea whooshing,
I tell the lady next to me, who lowers her paper
And starts shushing.
Fair and pale hair dusts his head,
Just like Salt flakes on a winter road
Or baking soda in a mixing bowl,
A swimming cap snapped onto Mount Fuji
Stained slightly pink from the rosy scalp beneath,
A garland of snowy feathers worn like a winners wreath.
Stop being so hifalutin,
You can’t write like that about someone probably called Keith.
Good grief.
Ahem. He wears a workers tan with ease,
It’s neither a milky tea brown nor a sterling brick red
But more of a vicious maroon from
The lower shins peeping above his socks to the top of his head,
And strangely, it’s the same colour as his tshirt,
Which must be size XL,
Or stretchy and made from 100% cotton thread.
Tight on the arms, kiss puckered lips,
Never enough ketchup to cover the chips
Avocado skin creases cover tattoos
Of snakes and daggers,
Of topless girls and curvy ship anchors
Of construction tools and business loans turned down by bankers.
They’re all faded coffee stains now,
blurry and indistinct,
Something interesting at the bottom of a muddy stream,
Close your eyes and imagine what they could have been.
Stories On The Sofa 