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Lost On The Seventh

I’ve played the message you left a thousand times
about our next meeting on Oxford Street.

I see the last flick of your eyes when we said goodbye
after one too many gins, many too few now.

The sweater you left is washed
so you can wear it when you call back next.

Wish I hadn’t now, but I bought your cologne,
maybe I’ll spray it soon, and I wait.

Your voice recording still cheers a joke,
I choke when the beep prompts a future chat.

No words now.

A windswept graduation snap flaps outside Aldgate.

poem by Sonja Broderick
Added by Poetry Lover
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