Lunch with Ivan at the Superior Kebab House
We end . . . . again.
I
knew. My eyes fell on your curling hair
uncombed,
black dirt under your fingernails.
The
words ‘Listen love’ scratching like a bear
into
your throat. A star coward, you failed
to
know your heart was emblazoned by miles
of
kisses. Your lips spoke of comedy
the
Russian dancing girl, your act, your lines
that
all your money went to the big dream.
You
said, ‘best Turkish pizza in London’
as
you drew sips of dark bitter beet juice.
Its
red scarring lips, your pained squinting, stunned.
A
cat hesitating door front, your choice
was
nonchalance but your neck muscles twitched.
Eyes
scoured cold hands, inadequate, wishing.
(c) Carolina Banks 2017
Notes:
I wrote this poem for my British lover. I made the mistake of becoming entangled with a poet / comedian. Yes poet / comedian. As a poet, dating another poet is passionate but seems to end up like a flash in the pan. Add comedian in there . . . and we found ourselves in a foggy unnamed three year passion called "its complicated."
No part of this poem may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Sharing is welcome with credit.
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