Illicit one-time love, your face
was narrow as mine, Italian as
De Niro. You were fortunate
to escape marriage to me, yet
sometimes, I confess, you visit
my salacious dreams. I wear black
lycra above the knee, and meet
your eyes as if you were an eager
punter on Great Windmill Street.
It’s years since I gave back your rose cut
diamond ring – which doesn’t show much wit –
so why would I think of calling you this evening
half way across the world? I have
your number, but see no point using it.
It’s far too late for an alternative life.
You would have hated being strapped for cash.
And who can tell how long we would have
burned together, before turning to ash?
From Thumbscrew No 15 (Winter/Spring 2000)