Making up the numbers again:
Unmarried, in my thirties;
Doing the round of dinner parties,
At the invitation of well meaning friends.
Tonight, it's my mate Mike.
Top bloke, I've known since secondary school,
Who used to play the gormless fool,
Until he married Stacy, the classroom bike.
Don't get me wrong -
I think she's lovely, now
She's settled for being a hausfrau
And given up showing glimpses of thong.
She was always out of my league, in any case.
Even when she was anybody's,
I was too immersed in my studies
And too shy to look her in the face.
Not much has changed, I suppose;
As I compliment her cooking
And concentrate on not looking
Too bored or desperate, or down my nose.
Still, enough of these distractions.
I try to focus on my blind date:
Thingy from Mike's office - what's her name? - Kate?
Though I'm oblivious to her attractions.
The romantic lighting leaves me cold;
For the smell of burning candle wax
Is in no way an aphrodisiac
And the glow reveals her hair's not really gold.
The barbecue sauce on her spare ribs
Leaves pink juice upon her fingertips
And smears between her chin and lips,
While grease rims her wine glass with each sip.
Mike suggests an interest we might share:
Apparently, Kate's a scribbler, just like me.
Do we have a similar taste in poetry?
I quote some Shelley; she misquotes Pam Ayres.
She thinks it's funny and her radiant smile
Comes as something of a relief.
If it wasn't for the gristle between her teeth,
This evening would almost be worthwhile.
Later, when I drive her home,
I pretend to be a gentleman
And act as if I have no devious plan,
Beyond vaguely promising I'll probably phone.
She invites me upstairs for a coffee;
Which causes me to hesitate,
As my conscienceless libido contemplates
Making love to her, while visualising Stacy.
