When I was young
I flung
Myself at fleeting pleasure.
I thought
Love could be bought
And heeded not
The ticking clock.
Now, at leisure
I pen rhyme
To passing time,
To lust,
And dust,
And clocks
That stop.
She kept her stockings on
And soon was gone.
Now I write a rhyme
About the first time.
In a bedsit
By a canal
My first fall
Was just banal.
Shal I write
Of other nights?
Of fake flirts in skirts,
And the odd passing delight?
No, I shall pass
Over the mirrored glass
Where many a stranger does comb
Her hair, ere leaving me alone.
K Morris - Poet 