‘I’m tight like spandex’ her T shirt says and I watch her rest her breasts on the edge of the coffee ledge. I hear her ring tone and see her gloss slicked lips
Skin flint My mother used her skin like flint, said she hadn’t shaved since Patti Smith got on stage and pissed on pop posters. She cut our hair in lego lines,
In summer the sea is full of skin and broadsheet pages. Tan oil props the surface like corporate relief. The tide, hucks up bottoms, taps on crabs reassures the sand in nicotine snitches,