I’m sprinting up Herne Hill in walking boots,
because you left your rucksack at the flat,
past office workers in their joyless suits—

my plans to be the bon flaneur are scrapped;
no podcast soundtrack to the morning stroll
as if I sport a Trilby and cravatte,

maybe a fancy walking cane as well,
so all can say, “Just watch that poet strut!
I bet he’s soon to wield his noble quill

and pen his worthy, otherworldy thoughts
and leave us all the better once he’s done!”
Instead, my tongue lolls and my knees are shot

and when I’m back, cursing my aching bones
you’ll kiss me quick and make it to your train
and I’ll remember when we both were young

and only our bed springs would groan in pain—
the mattress marathons; the night sweat flowing—
but now I’m shagged, and not in a good way,

and it took hours to write this awful poem.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 16, 2012 @ 00:42:03

    It’s much better to be shagged in a good way 🙂


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