Friday, 3 January 2014


Is it you I pass 
in  a cafe in  El Fouad street,
raising a  cup to your lips?
An act of practised charm

assuming beauty, posed 
at a chipped table,
a ghost wearing
whatever memory has 
dragged from its wardrobe.
We are too long apart now, 

for anything to matter,
yet, your eyes looked 

as they always did when 
my back was turned, spiteful -
talons settling on my shoulder.

More of my poetry can be read on,,

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