Margot
Clattery
and lethal,
Margot’s
a bundle
of knives.
Hand on hip
and a gaze
like Bacall’s,
you know
allure’s
what she carries
next her lipstick
as you fall
for those blue,
blue eyes,
forgetting to ask
whose blood
adorns
her buckle.
Ferried
after drinks
to her flat,
you’ve landed,
you think.
Already,
there’s coffee –
and that’s not all –
on the go.
The belt sleeps
in the lap
of a chair
but you know
enfoldment
by Margot’s
worrying.
You’re bound
to keep thinking –
aren’t you? –
knives in the air
knives in the air –
measuring the space
between here
and the door,
you saying
‘Goodnight’ with your eyes
but not moving,
she saying ‘Goodnight’
with her eyes.