Auckland Poetry

The Mislaid   It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach.  Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing.  Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday. The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she looked vulnerable and forty eight.