for the ages

he spat something in my ear

i think he was saying
that i looked sexy
but the words were muffled
by thick daubs of sweat and testosterone
sticking to his upper lip.

he walked with a posture
that certain men cultivate-

shoulders attacking the air before them,
each step thrusting forward
like a sex act.

ramadan was over in the western suburbs,
an event
marked by a miraculous collection of shoes
splattered on your landing.

sequined thongs & coloured slippers
congregating on the lino like prayer matts.

i’d spent the night with you in an
industrial estate
trying to capture
something for the ages,
but returned with only
an empty bag of twisties, a chemical
induced headache
& the thought that
keeping this up
is something akin to locking eyes
with a stranger on the train:

caught together for a moment
& then apart

unable to stay staring
unable to look away.