The Potter

The Potter
Fingers numb
warmth gone
like love receding
she stands outside the apartment block
drags a bright eye
into her cigarette
her dress
moth wings flirting
about her legs
betraying her figure
with glimmers of silver
he is late again

Parked up the road
he reclines the driver’s seat
two chopstick fingers
flick ash onto the bitumen
and when he drags
he holds it in
a few seconds
before releasing
smoke into the night
watching glints of silver
with a sigh
he forms the words
practises the rhythm
softening the edges
a potter spinning clay.

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