Hats

I met Lille in Belgium.
Hair in a bun.

She tested the current,
of the incoming squall,
by kissing me like a man.

Oh windy town of Ostend.
The blue and red,
of an unmade bed.

Cyclone aided mini-bar.
Brandy sweat raining,
sheets,
still,
dawn.

The news of the world.
Choking on lies,
tomorrows waffle.

‘We were love.’

She’s now someone.
A head for hats,
that fit like leatherette,
and suffocate the weather.