Not Her Type

Overgrown school boys, their bottoms plumping
pin-stripe, their side partings unconvincing.
She's met a few at Balls brothers (which it seems
is not like Yates' Wine Lodge after all).

They speak in 'we's and of collateral
and names, they order wine without checking
the list, then fill her glass.  And she in tight jeans
and cleavage and smoking too much.

Rarely are they inclined to consider
that capitalism is a dog biting its own arse,
or that a nation at war holds its breath
because it is trying to stop its soul escaping

 - they push on with their project. Sex, after all
is not a metaphor. Nothing is piggy-backed
on their desire for a woman so unlike their wives
or sisters. She finds she cannot touch them.

Their surfaces are like egg shell. As babies
they had no fontanelles. Its a small thing
she asks for. A man she can dig her thumb into
and still be holding something solid.








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