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Poetry by Bob Bradshaw 

Bob lives in Redwood City, California.



© 2005 Bob Bradshaw




Afternoon Tea

 "You want to come in?" she asked.
 What about your husband?
 "He's standing under a hat
 somewhere uptown.  How's
 your writing?"  I didn't need to answer.
 There Sally was bending
 to pick a magazine off
 the floor, the backs of her legs
 as strong as a working
 chorus girl's.  You
 are still beautiful, I said.
 "You'd flatter a meter maid
 to keep your car from being towed."
 No, you're as girlish
 as you were twenty years
 ago.  "No wonder you write.
 You're a good
 Well, you're quite a success living
 under a roof as solid
 as this one.  "It's got
 more holes in it than a flute,"
 Sally sighed.  You're lucky
 to have a man who's tucked
 you away behind four
 solid walls.  "Carl
 is sweet," she said.  "But..."
 But?  "You remember how
 you'd write songs about me?" she asked.
 "Carl writes checks to cover
 the interest payments."
 Sally, I said, Carl loves you.
 "Not the same way that you..."
 A bow stroking a fiddle.
 That's what you were.
 You made my world
 vibrant.  Sally








All work is property of Bob Bradshaw.


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