'Megaera in the Cocktail Hour'
http://www.poetryworm.com/Worm%2017.htm
Megaera in the Cocktail Hour
She is standing with the dark-eyed man
in the corner. He is twitchy with his glass
casting glances at the wall where the clock
escaped. It is because, his teeth remarked,
he has to be elsewhere, locking the gate
against defenders. She has been through
several sieges, has eaten ripe, unnamed flesh
and sucked on roast rat-tails.
She reaches down with tended talons,
tweaks the rule of stockings
which she wears on her shinbones
as a statement of entente.
Icebergs clink in crystal,
liners cruise proud and unprepared
across the carpet. Passengers wave
from the shore, their journey in the air.
She is growing feathers as he squirms.
She preens, pecks, crows 'Darling.'
He is nestward bound, destined
to feed her green and gold fledglings. The rush
of wings bears him out into the carpark
and pins him to leather. He has no chance
to semaphore. He misses Mayday.
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M.A. Griffiths was born and grew up in London, but now lives in Dorset (Hardy's Wessex).
She enjoys writing both free and formal verse, and participating in online poetry boards.
Her work has appeared in Snakeskin, Crescent Moon Journal, The Eleventh Muse,
Mind Mutations, and Mindfire Renewed, amongst others.
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