I'm Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,

he's Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.

Does this make us rivals or more compatible?

Anything is possible now I'm out of hospital,

picking his path oblivious to obstacles,

catching him in an unguarded interval;

he's too hospitable to swerve my tentacles

and I'm too intent upon my prey.

 

"What's with the titfer?" I bubble up giggly,

kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,

holding his eyes. Why should I feel guilty?

If he'll be Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane

I shall play Judas flirting with the enemy.

Don't say betrayal and the double agent,

I'm just a female at my play-station;

he used to be nurse and I the patient,

time to negotiate new relations.

 

Aspiring to more of an equal footing,

I climb too high and abandon hoodies,

the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,

words that clung to my tongue like glue.

Between heavy make-up and credit card crashes

I talk too naughty and hug too warmly;

he can't ignore me now he feels poorly,

it's his turn to go blue.

 

In minutes my mood is mellowing,

I shall saxophone and cello him,

donating charms of poor scarred arms,

the burnt flesh of thigh and breast,

the sin beneath a second-hand dress

to caress his eyes and capture him.

Wind and string go enrapturing!

Pull him close to the world's abyss:

I want him to hang on my lips

as I've hung so long on his.