Every Old Teardrop

there were tears
in the curry house,
she blubbed
over her bhuna
sobbed into a samosa
I sagged
like aloo
and the bollywood muzak
crackled through my spine
as I sipped
on a backyard cold
Cobra
wished I still smoked.

she wiped noir from
chic cheeks
skipped down splashed tarmac
to a bar corner
where I was old man
to carousel tables
of late night students-
they sparkled,
we sat
with a snog
glossed over
old times
till the kids slid
back to the halls,
till we smiled
at every old teardrop.