Rocketman

Troubadour nights, Dresses tight, bottles of wine Electric boots, sheets of linen Here’s what I really mean   You must have seen Her, dancing in the sand Not Rio, a Tiny Dancer Married a music man   Sweet eyes and a pirate smile High class lady, not from New Orleans I’m the judge, and she’s…

Tea Tricks

First it’s a bronze penny: Unassuming, rarely used. Then it’s a marble floor, Milk pushing through some pre-formed crevices, Seamless and steaming. Now it’s a lively cocker spaniel, chasing the spoon.   It won’t yet come out and play— Instead it taunts me, burns my fingers and mouth. On occasion it has a clever plan:…

Sometimes at New Street

A prose poem about Birmingham’s biggest train station.     Sometimes at New Street it’s a Monday morning. Peak time. Crisp sunlight and a rush of lukewarm air, soaking her skin as she passes through the automatic doors. In the continuous and urgent bustle of the commute she is enveloped, inaudible chatter fluttering around her…