The Walking Round In Circles Dance

We do the walking round in circles dance,
the dance of those who cannot dance, but want
to use the slow song as excuse to touch.
Her Charlie fights with my Blue Stratos for
the Player’s mentholated air between
her Playtex cross-your-heart and my gold plate
medallion. And is it chemistry
or static build-up when a spark crosses
the gap from my Byrite tank-top to her
Brentford Nylons blouse? Her lip gloss glistens
like a cherry flavour Spangle but tastes
of Wrigleys, though her breath owes more to kegs
of Watneys Party Seven. While we kiss,
I note her waterproof mascara caked
as thick as the Lone Ranger’s mask and laugh
when Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ breaks
the mood. Oi, what’s the joke? The punch-line comes
hours later in the kitchen: I find her
crying with a sisterhood of Essex
Amazons who wield cigarettes as spears.
Grass stains dark as bruises spot the ripe pear
of her crochet skirted bum. It is not
me holding court on the G-Plan, muddy
knees akimbo and unused pub-toilet-
issue Durex nestling like a Polo
in the pocket fluff of his Crimplene flares,
yet I take the blame for my sex. All men
are bastards. I raise my hands. So what if
I write a poem later. Forty years
is too long to wait to make my excuse.