Wolfgang’s House by Gareth Spark

Quicksilver canals mirrored
Buildings pale as tusks and
Glittering clusters of bicycles-
A February gale,
Rough as a cat’s tongue
Licked the streets with that
Metal stink of dirt and sun.

The red light district thwarted me,
apart from that decayed cafe
where I, with some of the language,
ordered beer as warm as tea
and bought your first club sandwich.

The goose pimpled waitress
In a white bikini outside a bar,
Her fish belly skin caught in the dull

Glare of sky, watched us go by. You
Had to find a McDonalds, and were
Bored by the Rijksmuseum.

The grey faced nausea passing,
and the house of “Wolfgang,”
Whoever the fuck that was,
Where we argued for the first time.

Gareth Spark

Gareth Spark is from Whitby, Yorkshire. His short fiction and poetry has appeared in Shotgun Honey, Line Zero, Out of the Gutter, NAP, Poetry Bus and Deepwater Literary Review, among others. He reviews poetry online for Fjords Review, among others.

 

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