Rented, the houses
were scented
with poverty,

a cold row
of reality
studded on a hill

that moped for some greenness.
Your star’s car
whirred through the streets

you’d forgotten,
behind the blindfold
of wealth

that came wrapped
in your marriage.
Blonde as Monroe,

you high-heeled
into our parlour,
to leave a treasure

of rich treats
for your humbled mother
and your dying father.

Then you were gone
with a smile like summer
and the room seemed darker,

as a fever of love
claimed

a burning boy’s
thoughts.

Peter Thabit Jones © 2022

Published in GARDEN OF CLOUDS/NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2020