Sure

I had the “After the Goldrush” jeans”

patches on the arse, leather flared inserts

a railway coat over a Levi shirt,

your father, Polish, called me a tramp.

I can still feel the reassuring weight

of your finger hooked in a beltloop

warm arm around my waist,

God we were so young, so brave.

To my star-crossed eyes

you were Jean Shrimpton

a potato sack would have shone on you

legs that stretched to heaven

hair brushing your hips.

I took you home on a Sunday morning

wearing Saturday night’s decadence

now out of place

wrinkled and bed-worn,

your mother asking where you’d slept

me choking on my tea,

as you nodded in my direction

everything was cool,

and I knew there and then that it would work.

Published by grahamrsherwood