The Dump
You said,
“Meet me at Joe’s.”
I thought,
“Now there’s a nice place.”

Sticky, tacky tables, encrusted food to grace
the graffiti scratched in every vacant space.
Stained coffee cups with remnants of someone else’s lipstick.
Stale, stagnant, ashtrays, old sausage and mash trays,
chef with yesterday’s dinners embedded in his overalls,
and over all, an over small dump.

I got to Joe’s a little late, I admit.
You weren’t there, so I found a place to sit.
Coke bottle in hand, I didn’t want a glass.
I never asked to come here. I should of passed.

The place was full of single fathers having access,
their shrieking offspring yelling, gelling in the mess.
Mingling taxi drivers, swilling tea, telling dour
stories of their passengers to pass an hour.

I didn’t like to stare, so I scrutinized the writing
on my bottle. In my head I kept reciting
the advertising logo over and over again,
then over you came, flustered and wet from the rain.

I could feel the dampness as you sat by my side,
the coldness of feelings you couldn’t hide,
but more than that was the smell of cheap scent
from someone else’s closeness very recently.

“You made it then,” you said, mouth happy, not the eyes.
“Yes,” I said, smiling. A quite desperate disguise.
You asked how my mum was. I said, “Just fine,”
then apologised for Thursday. You had to work ’till nine.

I wondered how long it would take the shit to drop,
like a paralysing avalanche. Impossible to stop.
“Look, love,” you said, serious now, head inclined to one side.
“I’ve been thinking…,”
and the stinking smell of Sunday greens, greasy gravy,
splattered dreams, men like my father and
‘it’s not you, it’s me’, speeches started to choke me.
I watched your mouth moving as your tongue delivered its spew.
Sugar-covered rabbit droppings dripping out to a mind choosing
a different time and place, only just catching the grand finale.
“So I just need more space,”
as you sipped the last of your coffee from the brown stained mug.