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The Cafe

A poem about a man who killed his wife, now he’s sitting in a cafe waiting to be arrested
Sitting Alone at Table

Innocent tulips, a splash of colour
On a dirty cafe table
Artists mustard brush strokes
Coat legs that are unstable

Blood-like wine, soothes the throat
Sweet smoke inflates black lungs
Flames lick skyward from the fire
Near the siren comes

The second bottle’s bottom bare
Thick baselines stir the mind
Drenched in sweat, I’ll wait it out
Until they make their find

Tulips were her favourite
The lifeless cheating blonde
Reproach dismally futile now
Just like a magic wand

Hearths hot breath, out of control
Akin to moments past
Freedoms quenching waters glide
Down river much too fast

A blunted knife stabs at a slice
Raspberry stains white bone
You have the right to remain silent
Confirms I’m not alone

About Jason

Hi, I'm Jason. I live in New Zealand and love reading, writing and getting out and about.

One comment on “The Cafe

  1. I like this – dark, but intriguing at the same time. I am thinking the intriguing comes from the photograph – a handsome psychopath:)

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