Bow. 1998

The gaze from my
Friday kitchen
window.

It’s a July dusk.
Bow.
East London.
1998.

The stars will
soon come out
to kill the memory
of this day.

And I spy
with my
weary eye,
a girl showing
late summer
flesh.

Against the
hot wall
she’s smoking
a long,
cool
cigarette.

Her arm arcs
to her
honeyed mouth.

A petrol blue haze
chases
her sleeve.

Sixteen years old
and the face of
Audrey Hepburn.

Quite possibly
the most
beautiful girl
in the world.

She glances up,
catches my eye
before
I can step back
inside.

She stubs her fag
with a Rimini loafer.

Then,
gathering phlegm
in her throat,
She spits out
with
venom.

But her timing is poor
and It dribbles
down her
chin.

Oh well.