by Nick Gisburne
The spark is missing. Opposites repel.
He wants a wilder woman. So does she.
She doesn’t like his aftershave. The smell
Reminds her of a scarecrow, or the sea.
And he, in turn, can live without her laugh,
A cackle any coven might reject.
He’s taller than a medium giraffe.
She’s shorter than she led him to expect.
Before dessert he longs to run away.
Without the smallest doubt, she’s up for that.
They split the bill, determined not to pay
For anything more tasteless than their chat.
The sex behind the bins is grim, of course,
But both will sleep, alone, without remorse.
