Poppies

He used arrive without no warnin’
just phone from somewhere
on the motorway. Hurry, quick
put on fresh sheets
run to Patel’s—sausages, white bread
chocolate biscuits
(I think his wife a healthy livin’ lady)
grab poppies from the yard
stuff them in a glass
put on dress he say he like once.

Sit and shiver. Afraid I ugly,
afraid his face fall, look aside;
no words—he don’t want me
chattin’ on, with him a swallow
swoopin’ all over on the motorways.
Each time I forget he talk so easy.

Stories! People I never see
dance colours on the empty wall;
he make me laugh like never,
he make the stories loosen in me
only I too shy. It get late
and now poppies droopin’, but he not.
He really like me, it me he lookin’ at
like it the first time always.
He stroke my face, breasts, like wonder,
soft kiss my lips so they perfect.

That last time he say he love me.
He surprise as me—we both laugh.
He not come again. Ever since,
I dreamin’ often I lyin’ in the yard
can’t move nothin’, and my nipples
blossomin’ with poppies.