On six-foot canvas
I record lives of others:
I sketch the open door of a terraced home
displaying a tagged foot, placed indoors, while
the other foot ventures on to the pavement.
Its grey sock
catching drifting cigarette ash.
Lolita’s house adds a new dimension
to my art. Her end-of-row town house has
cracked windows and a hole ridden drive.
She washes her car
in a pink bikini. Ghosts of her peachiness
dissolve in soap-suds on crumbling tarmac.
Her old toothbrush, fallen amongst thistles,
offers grooming for ragwort,
their tiny yellow blooms
already nicotine tinged.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd
would be pleased to hear them.