HOLD THE FORT
HOLD THE FORT
What the hell are you doing here?
I’ve seen your legs on horses.
I know the shape of your calves and most of all
I’ve seen your manly feet in photos
enough to know that’s them there touching me, oh no you don’t!
The hair on your legs and the warmth of your buttock on mine, your strong manly thighs from water polo.
What are you doing here?
I sent you to the sardine-can Jesmond long ago.
You broke the seal when you came in
which explains the little breeze on my skin.
I filled the fridge!
You probably didn’t even notice…
What are you doing here?
I’ve brought my laptop, tea pot and books
and a typewriter to keep writing clever hooks
and lines to fish for a response from you.
Well if you stay, just keep yourself over that way.
You know we always worked well when I fawn —
and you feign total disinterest, making me feel safe.
In my-your fort, holed up in Camberwell.
Up from the pond that heals well.
© Sylvie Hill 2013
