Pavlova

I watch your face change
like a smooth stone,
water running over;
like wet weather
in September;
like troops invading
a sleepy East European village.


Here it comes.

I’d sat in that same cafe
six months earlier,
Examining every ice cream flavour –
toffee, apple pie, raspberry pavlova.

I'd felt it coming,
like the pull of moon on tides
or a sure bet on ‘Lucky Numbers’.
We slept together
he'd said, face changing
like pebbles,
an ocean rushing over;
like downpours in July,
like men taking up arms
beneath an East European flyover.

I tossed the menu aside,
overturned his
banana cream gondola.
Stuck a finger up at the waitress.
Stomped outside, shouted at cyclists;
shook my fist at a seagull,
spat her name as if it were cyanide.

Felt stupid, went home.

Now I sit watching your face change
from spring to summer to winter.
This time I won’t stick around to hear it.
So I drop my spoon,
lick sauce from my chin,
say: "I bought the last lot.
Six pound fifty.
This time you’re paying."