High Tea In Birmingham

We took high tea in Birmingham,
my legs were all a-quiver.
She had a plate of pickled eggs.
I had a plate of liver.
We meandered through the myriad ways,
the days we left behind.
She left because she had to go,
I said I didn't mind.
...But I did, and so I pondered
the lost and long ago.
When all her eyes bewitched me
and I first saw her big toe.
Her gentle arms around me,
her levitating eye.
Her love for Jeeves and Wooster.
Her Laurie and her Fry.
The way she ate digestives
with just the one big lip.
Her wayward foot, her single ear
her syncopated hip.
I remembered brunching in Gibraltar
and carving out her name.
Her heart was literally on her sleeve,
my heart a beating flame.
She caught me by surprise one day,
with a right hook to the jaw.
Oh how laughed ..and laughed .. and laughed
as I dressed her swollen paw.
She kept a ball of sellotape
stuck to her left shoulder
and when asked why she would reply
“I'll need it when I'm older”
Her rusty nails, her haemorrhaging
her twenty three pet goats.
The music room full of C.Ds
all by Hall and Oats.
Gay nights outside the 'One Stop'
drinking bleach and Special Brew.
Being driven in an ambulance,
punching members of the crew.
Her tummy tucked tremendously
beneath the hi vis jacket.
Her jack boots dragging endlessly
caused a wondrous racket.
The sausages upon her head
where strewn around in bunches,
and she would say coquettishly
“These does me for me lunches”
I wish back for those long lost days
when we'd shout and rant and scream.
Me in a restaurant in Paris,
her in a skip in East Cheam.
The good times and the parties
crazed nights spent in Rangoon.
Me suckling her udders
her howling at the moon.
I thought of running after her
as she ambled down the street,
trumpeting at passers by,
tripping over her webbed feet.
But she was gone...I'm not so sure
that she in fact existed
I have to go and take my med's
my psychiatrist has insisted.

June 2013