Poetry Post

One Night in Sea Point

For Ingrid

My mouth is a furry caterpillar cemetery
And the stubs of too many cigarettes
Form a trail leading to a broken heart
On the mattress in the room next door.

It was a night of crossing too many
Imaginery lines in word and deed
And as I suck on a forgotten mint
And stare into the road, my eyes clash
With my weathered, dirty reflection.

The lion of the landscape seems to shuffle
And the litany of loudspeakers in the street
Does little to assuage the bass in my brain;
Those furry caterpillars taste of regret.

I don't want her to wake up and remember
That the man she kissed isn't the man she loves.