Urinal song.

I love the sound of piss on zinc

It reminds me of Donna's sleepy tales

of rain on Trinidad tin roofs

that she told me as we lay

in a Gloucester park

she reeked of

 passion

and coconut oil.

The downpour

on the corrugated school bike shed

where Mandy and I

traded tobacco smoke laden kisses

and held our own geography lessons

The rusty dutch barn

in which we made hay

and then hasty crop circles

in that hay

and planned al fresco escapades

in the ripening wheat

come the sun

Of the posh girl

dancing naked

save a transparent plastic mac

in the deluge

drumming the upturned boats

as I drowned

drowned 

in 

her 

exclusive 

proximity

Before realisation that

it was the breaking of our 'summer'

30 years have leached out all

but the salty memory of those monsoon kisses

that creeps up my spine

At the sound of piss on zinc.