Friday, 15 April 2011

13: Bikeshed

She had copper penny eyes; she spent
summer trading glances for drinks.

At the local they called her
Kiss Chase Kate, they sold her

pints on the promise of a peek,
a snatch, a snapshot carved into a keyhole,
a freezeframe of the zoetrope, and

though she thought she’d left that all behind,
behind the bikeshed, she obliged;

the town was small and
there wasn’t much else, besides.

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