Clown

 
He's probably been rubbing her cunt
all night, every night
securing a smile for his ego to hide in
when everybody turns with a smirk.

Most people are moth and light
but there'll always be more moths,
especially female
with scales under their plumped fir

and the more curve-cut glass passes through my hands
the more she glows.
She holds the look of a Vietnamese veteran.
He's as loud as a gun;
his tongue twice as lethal
and I'm stuck, puzzling this pairing.
It's not sex or drugs.

I talk to her like I'd known her for years
and her eyes remain diamond-clad, unflinching.
He moves closer to her
until she can't ignore his presence.
He's worried, sceptical, more so
because she's playing along.

We do this for the same cause, but different reasons:
she wants him closer for a reason
and I'm just drunk.
Drunk and bored.

When we'd finished knowing each other
he coaxed her to the door.
I see him open his umbrella and hold it
over her sculpted hair
and she kisses him
as their feet sail the rain home
together.

It hits me in the throat
like an anchor from my guts.
So I swallow the piss-like vomit back
to where it belongs
and flood it with survival
(whatever my pocket allows).

I button up my coat,
drag my shoes through the cold pools
biting at the rain
alone.