one one

on one particularly french friday  
i set the iron chairs and table  
out on the veranda  
and hope you would arrive  
 
with a bucket and spade living on  
dreams of castles and such  
candle wax ruins the cloth  
adorning the place we might have sat  
 
and i contemplate  
our affairs  
against the clock  
with a joint  
 
and a glass of white zin  
the november air toys with the winter chill  
i listen for the knock that  
will ease responsibility  
 
a youthful stench of widow  
retches and tickles me with its feathery ailment  
these minutes are cleverly processed  
into irregular patterns - 1>1  
 
for you  
i could not know  
you are camouflaged  
you know  
 
behind a writing pad or a security screen  
in a steel cage  
dropping soap  
and feeding humiliation  
 
     come back gentle man  
 
the ash droops away onto the white linen  
the sky is pitch black and irrefutable  
the candle has burnt out  
i do not have many regrets  
 
no  
 
i do not have many regrets