Cloud Claire

Cloud Claire

I came back from Oving a broken man
Defeated-I admit
A 'lazy, shallow, vain, lying BIG BABY'
And all that shit.

The view from the window of the pub I frequent
evokes many childhood senses
Memories-pictures of naked, sulking oaks, dense as
the damp, heavy mist that embraces them.

Light would invariably skulk into dark
And the men would appear,
Sit at my table, personalised with beer mats,
severed into soggy nodules. I'm not here
This isn't happening

'My cousin should be out'- one man says
'She's in France'- I reply
At least know the whereabouts of your first family
my conscience sighs.

The truth is I miss her
Most of all her nephrite eyes
Her blonde giddiness, the surprises-
Correcting me where Morocco lays.
My love for her, although rash, is public.
She tells me she loves me too, is the thing
How did my mind work at such a tender age?
I couldn't say what I had for breakfast this morning.

She sits, hunched, at my table
Looking quite bemused
Laughing, occasionally, at the incorrect moment
So endearing, so easily confused.

For a fortnight she'd been traveling
The North of France-
Yet lodged on the forefront of my mind
A topic of boring conversation at every chance.
She's subject to taste is a common reply
Over many a gin and tonic
Soaked, cigarette choked recent summers evening
It would be best to be purely platonic.

'WishUguyz were here, barzRgr8'
I often wonder if perhaps she's in awe
of socialising with us, three years her senior
8I have missed her immensely. as days knit together
Forming the past. I miss her more and more.

Tonight I sit in my recliner, simply dreaming
Counting down the hours until my chance
to see her again. And now my phone chimes. It reads:
'Close to home now&;I'm stayin on boat-
Goin bk2France!'