‘It’s the age thing,’
You said.
My heart missed a beat
And, in the same breath, went out to you.
Which is quite a feat,
Especially in someone of advancing years.
‘Don’t worry doll,’
I said patting your hand.'
You’re not fifty yet.’
‘Not me,'
You said, easing down the Doobie Brothers’ polished doper spirals.
'You.
I am but a slip of a girl.
I don’t mean to be unkind,’
‘This age stuff is all in the mind,’
I said
‘Come and join me in the 21st century.
We’re almost out of the noughties
You’re almost out of your 40’s
Get your pretty arse with the rhythm.
It’s the only guarantee of immortality.’
How I envied the shagpile as you slowly parachuted off the sofa
Your fall gently arrested
By the warm compression
Of your delectable derriere.
‘Beware,' the houseplants sighed
'She has the soul of a civil servant,’
Adding, as JJ Cale continued his inexorable groove to narcotic oblivion
‘And if you don’t mind us saying
She doesn’t find you very civil at all.’
I kept politely schtum.
My thoughts were on your bum
And all the fun
We could be having
Instead of wrestling with your preconceptions.
‘And another thing,’
You said,
‘I need to get off my chest
Is the size of my breasts.
They’re massive.’
I remained impassive
But glad you’d made mention
Of just the sort of thing
To escape a chap’s attention.
'So for you they’re too big?
For me they’re OK,’
I didn’t say.
My offer to kiss them better
Got no further than the tip of my tongue.
You seemed distraught.
While the cosmos quietly expanded,
The ferns struck an ethereal attitude,
And time lost meaning,
I said nought.
Morning, at least, threatened to arrive prematurely.
In that impregnable silence you said
‘Sorry, mate, you got no chance,
Of finding romance
In my pants.
But will you blank me in the pub?
And,’
In your winsomely womanish way
Slightly missing the point,
‘Still teach me to dance?’
‘Don’t worry doll,’
I said,
Stepping into the aching pink dawn,
‘You’re not fifty.’
‘Yet.’
© Patrick Ellis
