Stolen Thoughts
She can't remember now, how she stole him
from you;
Solotkin, your museful russian
with muscle and brawn
stretched his vocal chords and swam under
his searing gaze.
smelled the tobacco and turkish coffee on his breath
brilliantine hair, shiny and bright
the damp blue of Manchester
on his overcoat, like slick tarmac and night
time:
remembers
how he let Angeline twist
around his fingers and mind
how the word Fuck,
sounded so Russian
& so important, to them
on reading Baudelaire, naked
sat in the upstairs window seat
words sit and ambivalence
strode in,
in the backwash of his
embrace, he held her
watching them both
on the corner of Tib Street
just up from GlamourPussy
and the chip shop,
greasy kisses near the Old Market
gates, to another secret universe
She ponders 'pon time
and with accents thick with smoke & brass
she hears the chatter
all but gone
forgotten to some
to some, thoughts can be stolen
& plumed into a poet's hand
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Dammmnnn. Lady, you can "steal" anyone's thoughts any ol' time at all & no one would ever consider prosecuting...'cause you made 'em so much more grand than they were before, stuck in anyone else's head. Ummm...in other words...I liked this one a lot, my Friend. 
Good luck in Richard's contest, Sweetie. 
