NSFW

Midway through the phrase, both of us flinch:

"Oh, you're still in the honeymoon phase."

I wanted to punch her in the face.

Too dramatic? I'm not sure. It's just what came out tonight. I'm intrigued to see where that one will go... Also, caution to those who believe in the 'honeymoon phase.'

And, Galway....

At the time I don't believe you.

This place where for the first three months

the bay wouldn't bring my happiness back, where I

believed Bailey's would cure my upset stomach, and

woke up in the bed of an Irishwoman on St. Patty's Day.

How could this place be sacred?

Ah, it was a crass day in my writing world. (Sorry, Dad.)

Travel Buddy

We could chase the sun, you tell me.

Sleep for two nights on the Nile.

See all the stars in the Sahara.

You would take me to a remote island, you say.

Visit all the bars you once danced in.

Charter a boat for the clear blue waters.

We would walk on the beaches til we couldn't anymore

Sip endless margaritas by the pool, you dream.

Revel all day in the sheets and the heat.

You promise the only cruise we'll take

will be to see the Northern Lights, and we can

eat our way across Italy. We'll jump in a car,

drive across the South West and love

even more than the miles can count.

Shoe Observations

Shoes to the Londoner are like

jeans to the American:

at least that's how it appears on the tube.

Each pair is distinct to style, comfort,

pay rise or shopping ethic. The weather

seems to play a role in the number

of boots and brogues of leather worn,

but canvas is also a preferred option

despite the forecast or the colour.

The Northern Line

On the way home from work today, another excerpt, with a little nod to Peter Gizzi's "Plain Song:"

Old Street, Moorgate, Elephant & Castle.

Sometimes there's Poetry on the Underground.

Sometimes it is approved by the Mayor.

Sometimes I envy the dead or young poet.

Sometimes both.

Other times I forget to record what I've seen.

Just Us, Travelling

In the Travelodge Blyth A1(M)

Through the crack in the curtain,

the morning light hits the bedside lampshade,

as if it were lit from within.

And you, you are bathed in its golden hues,

still asleep.

I woke to a panic of bank accounts, unplanned

overdraft fees, a text from your mother, and

a need to pee.

The walls thin, the motor traffic stands in

for our Sunday Morning Love Songs,

the janitor's keys in the hallway

the sleep button on the alarm.

For Saturday - The Train

The train left the platform at 08:12:00. The board read 08:12:00 after we ran through the corridor and up the stairs, the train nowhere in sight.

We caught the 8:42:00 train instead.