It’s your bad handwriting
I like to look at,
your giant hands,
sharp stubble,
the grey in your hair,
the lines on your face,
jagged finger nails,
you picking food from your teeth.
I don’t want you to catch me
there
looking. I’m too afraid I’ll annoy you
by saying the wrong thing.
But I'll always be right there.
Unless the cat walks in.
Gayle Richardson (UK)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
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