Spewing. Vice. Itches.

Spewing. Vice. Itches. (18th September, 2008, 12.00pm)

I was shopping windows and
reflections as the street heaved,
belly up, cracking the pavements
with colour, spewing faces at me;
a sea of eyes, medusa-like, and I,
the girl who cannot swim, dived
into a mess of ravenous sharks,
waving my useless credit card
like a life raft, a piece of meat.

A parting, suddenly; carried along
on a silent wave through the throng
and, stepping over cracks, I knocked
a solid arm. You grasped; shoulder
in a vice, rat in a trap; I met your
eyes, and the shock of recognition
clawed at my fur, erect as hackles,
and sharpened fingernails or knives
traced catchphrases down my spine.

A wrench. Start my engine! Fast, you
bitch, snapping at my heels; I can’t
look a second time. I freed my eyes,
your hand imprinted, staining my coat
with invisible ownership; nimble goat
ducks and dives until a distance forms;
the back of your head as you turn; I
watch you from my higher vantage.
My credit card itches; therapy costs.