The sun scorches pink arms.
Blackened faces
wave handkerchiefs
and stomp in clogs.
I wait in the pub,
no call, no text,
drown lonely nights
in Pinot Grigio.
You arrive late.
Your silhouette,
bold as a Samurai,
darkens the doorway.
*****
I pick a fight with you
on the way to the chippie.
You accuse me
of flaunting my tits.
I tell you to leave.
You ride off,
leave your kebab and chips
on the doorstep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem