a whisp of a lisp
or flight of poetic fancy
as I stand
debit card in hand
waiting in the queue

a fringe
of disparate lengths
a fed-up face
but best of all
a plait
coiled on her shoulder
a protector
ready to attack
wrap itself constrictor-like
around every rude customer
sqeezing the very swear words out of them

she looks disinterested
I take my turn
a long day perhaps
the tired tedium of the evening shift
in the 24 hour store
that never shuts its doors

– do you need help with your packing –
my few paltry items
seeming
too much for me to bear
useless man

– no thank you –
I say
it’s polite convention suggesting
I hope
humanity

in that brief exchange
in those pre-destined words
I sense warmth
a feint lisp of whisper
or flight of poetic fancy
as I wonder
what snogging her would be like
under the stars
hand in hand
on the sand
of Scarborough’s South Bay
are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

I know I will never see Jess again
a chance encounter
a brief encounter
without smoke
guard’s whistle
steam train
an eyeful of grit

I am not Trevor Howard
She is not Celia Johnson
I am mid-life crisis
she is still young
with a life full of other men to meet

I am left
I walk away
a self- packed bag
thoughts of other brief encounters
randomness in life
God filled human beings
I will never snog
or hold hands with
by Scarborough’s star-lit sea.

Copyright – a shy vicar