Miss Tempest Thinks

that sofas should come
with a handbrake,
that when you meet someone new
you should touch keys
in case the grooves fit
like zip teeth,
that house is to wife
as clay is to pigeon,

ka-blaam!

and sitting on the wet
half-round ridge tiles
near the roof's gable end,
her back against the chimney breast,
Miss Tempest thinks
that she still doesn't understand
the point of gutters on roofs,
and if they all collapsed tomorrow
maybe no one would notice,
that you can press your splayed fingers
into a big lump of dough
and bake someone a loaf
like a Hollywood sidewalk slab,
that through a megaphone
you can't help but sound cross and unwell.

Miss Tempest thumbs
a fat cartridge into the breech
and thinks she misses
old cameras, with film.