I could write a letter, well the one I’m always composing, only you will chuck it in the bin, unread, unloved. Maybe you will wrinkle your nose, like you do, and shred it between your slender fingers.
Ada Lovelace Park. Hey, they went and renamed it, in all their received wisdom. An online campaign. You must have thrown your agitated hat into that ether…
Ada Lovelace Park. The children should be here with me.
I’m attending the groups, up and running again, with other men in chains or might as well be, huh? One of them said the woman grieves during the relationship, while the man doesn’t even realise, then it’s too late, bro… the idiot grieves long after the horse has bolted. So, we are The Lost Fathers, saddled up again, Hoo-ha! seeking justice, that’s what we tell each other. Or is it emotional rescue? As we struggle through the quagmire of regret, guilt. Grown men missing out on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. Still paying through the nose, read ‘em and weep. One guy hired a private detective, I think it was his cousin or something. Supposed to keep things in the room, you know? Did I tell you this already? Does it matter?
Here I am. Watching you. Like the old song. What a joke. My mother doesn’t know.
And of course, he is taller than me. How so much like you to meet at the bandstand. Ochre coloured leaves underfoot.
Another strand falls and… if he… If he should tuck it behind your ear….