POSTCARD PAIN.

A GIRL GETS A POSTCARD FROM HER BOYFRIEND IN FLORENCE.

Jude sent you a postcard
From Florence where he’d
Gone with friends including
That Brinte girl, that b***h

With a twitch as you call her,
The one who’s all over him
Like maggots on dead flesh,
You read the words he’s

Scribbled on the back, read
Between the lines, wonder if
She was gawking over his
Shoulder as he wrote, whether

Her perfume was anywhere on
The card. You sniff the postcard
Knowing people would think
You mad by doing so, but you

Need to be sure, cannot rest
Until you sense he’s coming
On to her in some Italian bed,
Walking hand in hand with the

B***h by the Arno or some such
Place, him all muddleheaded
And she licking his ear or sucking
On his neck. You hold the postcard

Close to your eyes, looking at each
Aspect of the scene. You feel annoyed
That he didn’t ask you to go, didn’t
Have you by his side instead of her.

You want more from the postcard
Than it can give, want some declaration
Of love, which isn’t there. Having a
Good time and weather fine cuts no

Ice with you. The rest of the usual
Jargon is spilt words conveying
Nothing much to feed the mind.
You imagine her at his side as he

Wrote it, her licky tongue in his
Ear as he put pen to card, her hand
Resting on his shoulder as he put
The few crosses implying kisses,
But looking like falling birds.