Penguin woman


Penguin woman


Penguin woman walks imaginary hills

Takes two steps, then stops and checks her pockets

Hands like spatulas slowly scooping nothing

She shrugs shoulders down into a burdened breath


Tongue clucking, looking down the road

She shifts her weight like a stood-up date, sighing

Her make-up’s three days old; her shoes are scuffed and flat

Feet slap like paddles up the cruel angled cobbles


At the entrance to the park she stops again

Turns hopeful, as if somebody’s called her name

Turns back to where a young girl sometimes plays

Though not today


Penguin woman walks down well-remembered paths

Where shaded cigarettes were shared and smoked discreetly

Swollen flesh, stolen kisses and nasty rashes

When laughter sang of adventure and not scorn


© Steve O’Connor.  2012

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Yvonne Brunton

Mon 3rd Sep 2012 00:42

Strong images and you evoke powerful emotions here, Steve. I especially like the last two lines and the idea that not all memories were of good things.

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