Intimacy these days discomforts. More our style
is the park or the pub, or three-minded chess
with young Kasparov. A bracket-dash-colon smile
implies we have no longings to confess.
Always, though, I’ll text a bunch of preset flowers
on the eve of her six-month scan. ‘Thank you, dear
heart, for remembering.’ Then come the hours
of worry (agony for her) before the all-clear.
Valentine’s the patron saint of squirm for us both,
love’s wafer on the tongue a poisoned biscuit.
The troubadour-lover worth his sugar composes
a romantic effusion of the kind she’d be loath
to wipe her derrière with. Dare I risk it?
I text her a preset pint pot, foaming with roses.
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