David

In any place, when you figure it, there's always an Old Lady, while the kitchen shakes, chefs toil in fits, to get a living wage, they’re all on the make, with these new gadgets, that circle this space, my back quits the race, no smile can shift, around the pain, it spins before my face, a lover in a launderette, puts me out the game, hangs me on a door frame, music from a tablet, plays again and again, it'd be wrong to say, love doesn’t exist, but when she sees my mate, looks like a hit.