Poppy Cockburn

 

no winners

 

Face wet, I step into candlelight,

take out my lenses.

 

Racehorses blur in the dark rain 

[slow motion, radio on].

 

They say Negroni Season 

won’t come around again, 

 

low-stakes love doesn’t burn for long.

Old betting tickets line the floor.

 

I know you intend to elope 

with my best ideas – a spineless 

 

highwayman galloping 

into miasmic distance.

 

You won’t get far 

on a gambling-damaged horse. 

 

I am closer than you would like,

my face wetter than ever.

 

Now morning has arrived 

like a debt-collector, 

 

is yours even slightly moist?