She had the type of hair

that Maria Fredriksson

wore without apology,

not that she would ever need to,

not that any of us should be required

to utter,

Come not ye empty mourners,

I boldly cried out loud

in the safety of her stark office,

too young for personal effects

but complimentary on my tattoos

that straddle my arm

as if making the best of a bad deal,

a slight hand job with no verbal kissing,

no sweet talk, she took me to the edge

of raw and left me there, in her room,

no possessions, no empty mourners,

I wasn’t even half way spent,

I had not got started reliving

all the glory that led to pain,

nor the anguish that gave rise to

the two fingered salute of

gorgeous Punk and the Medieval Long Bowman,

No money changed hands, to wait a while

Till I saw her again, I hoped she

would have a photograph

placed between us, on the tea table

where I put my water,

a recognition of a past

as I recounted mine in therapy.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017