POEM FROM THE TONY MORRIS ARCHIVE
LOVERS
Over pretty print frock,
Dirty hair drapes her raincoat.
Alone, in the scurry of hot feet,
She sits on a bench
In a square of glass and concrete reflections
Screwing up her lightly painted,
Powdered, puppet face,
Giggling,
Holding negatives to the sun.
Close by her long legs
Posed in black patterned tights
Thrust into black wellingtons,
Her dog,
One ear up,
One ear down,
Watches her,
Seeing
Nothing incongruous.
ãTONY MORRIS
7 November 1987
