One Night Stand

One night I came upon a poetess
standing on the hillside,
pitching rocks at the moon.
Concentrating on her task she seemed
sufficient within herself, complete.
Silly bitch.

Now, I’d just been down the pub
philosophising with me mates.
My philiosophy of football, I told them, is,
we need another Gazza, like.
That’s my philosophy. We also need
another bevvy, said Mike. Not arf we don’t, I said.
It’s nice when philosophers are in agreement.

Afterwards, this poetess.
Seeing as we’d be of like mind,
and seeing as I hadn’t had a shag in days,
I walk towards her, casual like.
She turned and watched quietly, wondering
what manner of creature was approaching.

How do? I said. I couldn’t help noticing you
chucking them stones at the moon.
Know what rhymes with it?
I’ve hit it several times, she said complacently.
Like hell she had.
Yeah, but d’you know what rhymes with it?
I can’t imagine, she said. Do tell me, please.
June, I said. June rhymes with moon.
Fancy that, she said.

There was an awkward silence,
or maybe a poetic one.
Hard to tell, really.
I rummaged in my mental toolbag
(now there’s poetic if you don’t mind)
and pulled out a spanner of wisdom.
Do you know the sign-writer
in the High Street? I said.
You two’d have a lot in common,
you both being involved
with words an’ all.
No, I don’t know him, she said.
And, I said, warming to my theme,
what about the book-binders
down on the industrial estate?
Simpkins and Son,
just opposite the glue factory.
They’d be on your wavelength,
you both liking books and stuff.
No, I don’t know them, she said,
but thank you very much for telling me.
Think nothing of it, I said.
Glad to be of assistance.

There was another silence.
Definitely not poetic, this one.
I took one last shot at it.
So how do you do it then, this poetry?
I already knew the answer to that one, of course.
You do it with a rhyming dictionary.
As I suspected, she didn’t have a clue.
I haven’t got a rhyming dictionary, she said.
Not got a rhyming dictionary?
You sure you’re a proper poetess?
She stared at me. I felt uncomfortable.
OK, let’s get down to brass tacks, I thought.
She’s bound to be gagging for it,
else why would she be up here all alone?

Fancy a shag, darling?
Piss off.

Now that wasn’t very poetic, was it? And I told her so.
What would Daddy poet say if he heard you talking like that?
Our rapport was broken, I wanted a takeaway, so I left her to it.
I’ve got a book of rugby songs at home, I shouted back,
and every one of them rhymes.
And I know someone what writes poems for birthday cards...

On the hillside, the poetess picked up a pebble.
Something small and sad
had just drifted by, a thing to be pitied,
she couln’t think what it had been.
A soft breeze blew the thought away.
She took aim and launched.
Another hit.