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.