It was enormous fun to write: a departure from my usual style.
It brought to mind the grand old days of B-movies at the Astoria Picture House in Belfast, back in the Nineteen Fifties.
Here's one final word from Betty-Mae.
THE DREAM
I dreamed last night that he’d returned
and walked in like he’d never left:
that bashful smile, the same crushed suit,
his scar, his chin with the cute cleft
I loved to touch. His kisses burned.
I called him lover, lovely brute.
Then, like I’d turned up the wrong card:
the trey maybe, or Ace of Spades,
he’s walking backwards into smoke
and steadily his image fades.
I’m left, bereft of him. It’s hard.
Damn card’s a Joker. Some damn joke.
I dreamed last night that he’d returned
and walked in like he’d never left:
that bashful smile, the same crushed suit,
his scar, his chin with the cute cleft
I loved to touch. His kisses burned.
I called him lover, lovely brute.
Then, like I’d turned up the wrong card:
the trey maybe, or Ace of Spades,
he’s walking backwards into smoke
and steadily his image fades.
I’m left, bereft of him. It’s hard.
Damn card’s a Joker. Some damn joke.
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