Does this cloud-maned beauty see
how I ironed this shirt, pressing mercilessly
until the ionised water evaporated? Does he
understand how long it took to shape
my hair this way? To cover the gape
where my once-full coiff's now planning its escape?
Did he notice my choice of a twenty?
I had tens in my wallet. The drink cost two-fifty
but it looks like purples are all I carry
this way. Does this Pan, who probably fucks
his choice of uni intake bucks
see my killer-sweat? The flux
his lick of the lips casts? Of course
he does, but it works. No laws
against flirting, grandpa. Can't force
him to stop. He thanks me
for the double and coke, waits the customary
five minutes in my company,
then mumbles something about a song
he wants to dance to, and is gone,
having left me a number a digit too long.
