Edinburgh
Two thirds of the way home
at a motorway service station,
I massaged your hands,
unpopped the dent left by
the gearstick, untied
the sudden brakes and the slow
tractor-curdled traffic. I used
my thumbs to flatten a few
hundred miles of Scottish hills
like bubble wrap, of roads
more like deer tracks. And into
the pink crease of your palm,
I quietly tried to thread
myself.
Guilt Free
Now we all know
the protocol.
If - when you’re in
town, minding all
that business of your own –
the fold of shadow
between building and
street, speaks, asks,
no not asks, begs,
for the change scraping
in your pocket,
when the wind-dried
coffee cup rises like
a microphone, you
know to say, ‘no,
sorry, you might
spend it
on drugs.’
_______
Connor Harrison writes short stories, essays, and poetry. His work has appeared online and in print, including at the Disclaimer, Storgy, and as part of the ‘Flipside’ Exhibition at the Fold Gallery, London. He is based in the West Midlands, UK.
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