Marigolds to Marry Gold

by George Pringle

Your hand was once a Palmist’s guide: Smooth and white

Do you remember that time?

But what line of fate, was it, that drew you to this place?

Do you remember, when first, a gloveless hand you did insert –
into the waiting orifice of any given receptacle?

How did it feel?  Was it like losing your virginity?

This intimate activity, with those of the city…

…with mouthes that booze and screw…
and chew gum

Left, like missing molars
astride the sides of saucers

Porcelain ridges, lined with kisses …
The aristocracy of unknown fingers

That leave hygienic wipes
that take the time, to sterilise

Oh, to partake in their DNA
taken away, day after day

Beneath your pitted nails
within your splintered fingers

They roughly snag at the gossamer that skims your lively thighs.

 

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