I was listening open-jawed,
to that soprano
you didn’t like.
I could tell.
Highs and lows. Your cheeks
You were playing board games
over your legs.
but I could spy snakes galore.
And they were such that
I had to stare at all the polished shoes
of the cellists in front of me.
But I was stealing
Glances of you. To sell off to myself later.
Oh, what an honest thief!
On the bus back,
before we had to get out and walk,
you held my arm in your hand,
Your little grip on my heart,
And slept slept slept.
And I was so warm
and the moment so beat up with hammers
that I tried my best to cry quietly
so I wouldn’t wake you.
have juust read page and decided I can’t be bothered to decipher scary poems.or blog for that matter.Enough,just tell.
oh,god ben.can you not send me to these sites.please
Sorry about such.
I have no idea obviously what these comments are about, but I thought the poem was good.
That’d be the ‘she’ (Laura) that some of these poems are about.
She’s trying to find out why, in our school newspaper my
anonymous poet name is ‘The Beachcomber’.
Wonderful, as always. I’d like to visit the place where you find this kind of inspiration. 🙂
@ Phoenix: you really wouldn’t want to go there… !
And why did you call yourself beachcomber anyway?!
Hope you’re feeling better after Saturday.
So Paddy, you too want to know ‘The Answer’…..
We shall see.
Yes yes. I feel fine, thank you.
Phoenix – Thank you. This one would be at the National Concert Hall and on the way back to school.
It’s a bit like poison.