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.