Saturdays with Sauce

Saturdays with Sauce

Bus stops and tomato sauce
are inseparable.

The nutter
will always find you.

What makes hot buns cross? What cross
did you bear when my arms went cold?

We were inseparable
and the surgery was cruel.

What could possibly
alarm an alarm?
It’s already screaming his name
this fucking early.

Sometimes you’ll bruise legs
getting a spider or a lover
past their death wish.

Poster sells ‘The Lost Boys’.
But aren’t they all?
All aching for the womb but fighting reason
and the GPS.

Muscle and tatts but scared stiff
her long, blonde hair will be too strong for him.

Two things died on their heartfelt leap to beauty.
One was a frog.
I was there at the time.

Autotype punches ‘orgasm’,
‘orgasm’. But it’s ‘organising’
I’m after, and not for a threesome.

Intimacy. No. None of that.
A man’s body finds mine
and I scream and have to apologise
to the bus stop: ‘Sorry.
Was not expecting flesh.’

All of that
on a messed up Saturday morning
with too many deadlines and not enough sex
or frogs.
Then he says he’s proud of me.
And buns, crosses and tomato sauce
make sense at last.
And it’s almost happiness.
Perhaps not at this stop
but the one after.


About sandrathibodeaux

Poet and Playwright
This entry was posted in Miscellaneous Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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