Mascara Tracks

Exeter is the tears of mascara tracks,
trains shunting and sudden stops
as your tears start and stop, the sense
that you being or me being is just a
concussion of halts and interruptions.

Waking to a candlewick bedspread and a
stained and scorched 2 star carpet while
the wind settles and bacon wafts we think
of nothing much as eggs is eggs.

Shaving foam flicks a nipple and there
are intimations of Gillette, some of them spoken
as the condensation gathers; there are
chips in the tooth mug, hairs in the shower.

It's not tracks of your tears my dear,
it's tracks of ours, and rattled distances
from flat to flat or room to room where
single beds or sofas do, and mostly we prefer
to linger.

Or thereabouts.

E G Jarfer