Marmalade

As some are fooled by twenty words for snow
or think of thunder as a god's complaint,
she'll misinterpret what I'm doing now.

Mind you, it feels that good, for her at least,
this dog-watch dalliance, this matinée
performance of our beastly cabaret,

where cupidons join hands around the bed,
the beat-box pumping up The Best of Stax.
We're puppy lovers, lire millionaires;

her well-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex
lies open, just beyond the underwear
atop the half-sprung jar of marmalade.

And in that moment where she reaches for
the amyl, I'll remember what you said:
don't try too hard. But it's too late by then:

she's too deep in my squiring to assess
my worth. Face facts, I could be anyone.
So, toss a coin on which will happen next

from all the oldest stories in The Book
of Love: sweet zeros, trains will rattle by,
a husband's car will pull into the drive,

we'll turn out to be twins or some such thing;
she'll pair my socks, she’ll sigh, she'll wear my ring,
then leave me at the end of Chapter Five.

Sweet dreams. By all of which I mean, beware;
best know just who and where you are and why,
before you dip your fingers in the jar.

Copyright © Roddy Lumsden 2000