“I love this bed” you sigh. Half clambering, half enticing.

Socks fly chaotically towards carefully folded suit trousers

on the stair banister outside our door. Seductively deluded

domestic comfort. We mock the coupling joggers sweating and panting.

Beating the towpath in desperate lust for a BMI of whatever. We know

a much better way to keep the pounds off by keeping pounding. You in me.

 

The exhibitionist in us squeals loudly. Delight at unpredicted

passing canal boats, captains and ship mates looking out.

Can they see you knelt, tugging softly at my amber gold down

with your teeth? Sometimes, we close the curtains tight

Bed darkened by earnest to fuck undisturbed.

Oblivious to leaves falling, endless night approaching.

Feet pinned and needled, heart thudding, I greed

in delicious delight of coming together - then becoming

your very own tangle down, your autumn colour, in post-coital fragility.

 

Then tea. I make your Goodbye cup, ritualised to soften blow

of you going home. I stir far more slowly than the first one

As passionate urgency always wins over courtesy.

Always hurried, pathetically weak, usually undrunk.

Slopping this one up the stairs, accompanied by a saucer

of chocolate biscuits attempting to delay inevitable wrenching apart.

Time’s up. More leaves fall; crisp and tattered, tornadoed in confusion.

Briskly kissed with a promise of soon, I shut the front door.

 

 

© Katypoetess 2013