Wet Teabags

Man, married, seeking one time only.
Divorced, past her prime,
smiles upon request,
filthier than all the rest.
Must be discreet, no expectations please,
begging a turn on, I finish then you leave.
I like them tall, but most of all sweet,
what’s wrong with your wife,
perhaps we should meet?


A walk in the rain, a drink
with dinner
steamed against the windowpane,
she must never know – a kiss
that hangs between lips
balanced, still,
a strand of gossamer soaked in wine,
your place or mine?


You said you’d leave your wife for me,
I felt it, in your pulse
beneath my fingertips.
It was everything I needed: silence,
my eyes no longer eyes,
but secrets,
my skin no longer skin,
but shame.


In daybreak dreams are never real.
Don’t you remember? It’s your turn,
no, your turn to drop off the kids,
call me that again and see what happens,
Fine, I’ll get the prescription,
you do the shopping list.


What will you call yourself this time?
Lonely, in need of company?
Here on business, just passing through,
how about a shag or two?
A housewife, yes, who likes to play away
make it shameful, there’s a dear
do me like you mean it,
you won’t even have to pay.


Have we met before?


This game is like a shunt
pressing down against my brain.
A marriage made of ice,
cracking beneath my feet,
kisses dipped in desperation,
wet teabags in my mouth.