in a Leamington Spa pub
she sat alone
alone with some bloke
loading the table
and her
with shorts
he’ll recoup that investment later
wearing badly fitting jeans
bloke slouched to the pissoir
she glanced at me
as she downed a glass
being a sociable guy
cursed with empathy
I asked her quickly,
‘tell me, are you really happy?’
bloke swaggered back,
a tell-tale damp smudge
inches zip-side,
‘I don’t know what happiness is.’
This is a picture in sepia of happiness lost in the desperation to be loved. The story I would like to know was how it all vaporised for her, but this is information that can only be guessed which, as I recall, you demonstrated in an earlier poem. Nevertheless, this is another gem IMHO.
Thanks, G. her drooping posture and how she looked at ‘bloke’ on his way for a pee and back again said so much. I suppose I could write a longer piece detailing (imagined) her decline and fall but that’s been done to death on film, in fiction and poetry so thought I’d kinda draw an outline (like an unfinished tattoo) and hopefully the readers can/will paint in their own colours 🙂