Wes Lee


Everything hinges on a door opening
and the casual laugh of a man
stepping out for smoke,
as he fumbles in his shirt pocket
he sees us there, three steps up,
your hands at my throat
and my face the colour of death
and my hands beating at you,
and your lips
twisted with spit with a carry-through look
in your eye,
he moves so quick
with no thought and slaps you
at the side of your head which causes you to bend then stagger
then look with such hate at the new
partner who has cut in.
You quickly assess the size of his arms
and the heft of his fists
then move away like something obscene,
its slink along a wall made to
keep something out –
you grow so small
down the steps, winding through a
vortex of night,
the party still very loud inside.

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