WARREN LEVER

The Pastel Leather

Pushed each other round in shopping trolleys,

the cold steal rump – a peeling mirror on

the steaming hulks that shift us through the old path

as we dally cross-countries, smoke in our old vests.

grey ducks, arse jangling keys – the rhythm

that still turns on fluffed needles in faded

Ajax labels; the buckling of plastic wheels

on cobble and corrugated iron.

you’ ll meet us hanging to the wet lace of

a weathered shoe thrown on a garage roof,

our leathers fed on cooking margarine.

only we’ll curl back into the desk drawers,

where you can engrave your sentiment with

compass points, or today’s dinner token.

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SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #31, JUNE 2005. ISSN 1479-425X