Signs Poem by Jerry Pike

Signs



She stands there, her own corner,
gesticulating to all and sundry,
screwing her face up,
tongues, occasional smiles,
hands of a possessed belly dancer.
But her hair falls lank,
chip shop oiled string,
greasing the screen.
I mean, really,
why don’t her TV friends tell her?
That poor sign language lady.
Oh, maybe they have.

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Jerry Pike

Jerry Pike

Harrow, London, England
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