Not now, Petula, not while your sister’s taste

is on my tongue and my loins throb

like the gum around an abscessed tooth

at the thought of her; wait

until the rain has washed all traces of her

from the doorstep; wait until the bedding

has thrown her through the open bays;

wait until your mother has dressed

and left by the back door; wait

until the copying cat has lapped its saucer

dry, relaxed its stiffened tail. Then

pour me a glass of water for my Viagra.