When love is on the wrong side of the sheets

romance must give way to expedience

and, short of coupling in the public streets, 

all places serve at love’s convenience.

Beside stormwater drains; in fields of wheat;

in lifts; against a sturdy paling fence: 

all fifteen-minute feather beds for cheats. 

At best: the boardroom table; worst: the gents.

Yet all this grubby fumbling in the dark

does add a certain spice to things, and while

the rusting old rotunda in the park

may bruise and chafe, it has some outlaw style

– and with no place to spoon after the buzz

we can’t pretend it means more than it does.


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