Small Hungers
       

Your bare foot beneath the table brushes mine;
a moment ago they were kicking sand along
the beach — but now we sit in a café,
our heads at rest against a rise of pebbles,
the surf pulled up to our chins —
gulping back the raging sea, each wave
an onslaught of wet delight; clinking of cutlery
like loose metal fastenings on ghostly masts.

In truth it had been a grey affair: low-tide;
cold, misty — the pebbles laced with tar,
so instead we have the comforting heat,
clear water in a jug; having made short work
of the starters, we mull over the main course,
the glare of the white cloth blinding
us to reason — our ravenous toes
scuttling to make sideways love
on the ocean floor.

Tweet

Copyright © 2017 Pete Mullineaux All rights reserved
from How to Bake a Planet
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission