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Ice Age

That long cold winter,
when flu hung off walls,
a thousand ice bound drips
polished crystal balls,
skewed sheets on washing lines,
while lips froze.
“More than a nip in the air”
The man at the corner shop,
sausage weathered hands,
ran the blade to
cut the twine
with a practiced flick
of the wrist,
munching a crisp,
searching for Sundays scandal,
Jayne Mansfield
clutched to my chest,
much more than I could handle.
Ran back home.
blew coals back to life,
(why is the word kindling
forever in my mind?)
Flames rose, blushing like virgin brides,
Hovis, Stork Margarine,
two solid blocks, grinding
between teeth.
While upstairs, faint sound,
foot seeking linoleum.
Soon they’d be down.
Tea weary as a wet week end
swirled round, and still
It would not come light.

16 Jan 09

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I saw a very interesting story, visually cinematic in this poem. Very cooool lol
 — vida

Love it, a master  wrote this
 — Rossant