Last Waltz
He's awkward in the
ballroom
size twelve feet in
regimental boots
linen slacks against a
starched white shirt
creases you could stab
someone with.
His lips move as he
counts the steps
looking down, always
looking down;
one meaty hand on a
girl
her waist so small
a wasp would be
jealous.
He smells on Brylcreme
and cigarettes
his half of bitter
untouched
though the ashtray is
full of spent matches
while she smells of
perming solution
and the cheap perfume
she bought at Woolworth's
but the face powder
doesn't hide her freckles
and her teeth are
crooked yellow
but the kiss on the
cheek she gives him
before she boards the
4A bus to Benwell
will sustain him for
almost a year
and the death of his
platoon.
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