We danced like madmen all night in our tap shoes – knitter knatter, pitter patter. A prancing pair we were, from pub to pub. Always drunk, we puffed gutter-stubs. Knowing no daylight, we rose vamplike each sundown.
We stank of our own sweat as we dawdled through evening – must have been a Friday, our last relic of routine – for a fish supper.
Leaving with our chips, we saw him – didn’t we? The stranger. A pencil-shaving shadow showed him off. Neither local nor some foreign drifter: a city boy from the south side with a briefcase.
To this day, I wonder – was he a spy?
When I woke, dawn stank of bloodburnt leaves. You were gone. I never did catch onto that sunrise.
Zoe Broome’s first collection Back To Yesterday was published by Three Drops Press. She has poetry coming out this year through the Grist Trouble and Strife competition and in her spare time enjoys drawing.