BROKEN JASMINE MEN

a walk through town

ended sat by the cenotaph

on old hill fort trailing broken jasmine,

whose fading sweet scent-

fell over long lists

of remembered names.

women of my own age,

sat showing their beauty

of made up face

and mammarous breasts,

talking down time

with crossed legs

matched to buttery buttocks.

rolling a cigarette

the way my grandfather did-

their children laughed together,

and charged around on green grass

with pretend death stuttering

from their hands and lips-

no mud, or soft thud, of brass bullets

slam into flesh and bone

to silence them forever-

yet.

a smile from one of the women now,

and what do i do-

sit there,

confidence looking down

at my cigarette smoke rise and fall

thinking of broken jasmine men-

but sometimes,

i fashion a secret glance

obvious to them-

looking into beauty,

and lusting,

like these men would-

with them knowing

i have been single too long.

time to go.

i get up,

say goodbye

and walk away

like a branch of broken jasmine,

but not a hero-

the truth is

each age sees

birds of prey

falling away too

into the bay

after flamingo.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 18th June 2009 INSIDE OUT.