Message

 

Message

 

Hot day, UK, September scorcher,

not expecting anything much,

nothing current, nothing former.

You’re reminded of Pretty Woman,

that flick - she works on commission

and makes a big mistake, huge,

boiled eyes and endless queues.

Now, you see, she’s left a message:

is it a diamond in the rough,

or one of those? Too many of those.

Maybe a picture - she’s dressed up

in her charity shop clothes,

more dirt to smear on your nose,

not as often, less often, it’s true,

because me is me; you is you.

You once met someone, anyone,

brushed shoulders with the mad,

she was touched, and bit the head

then bit off the tail with a laugh,

walked away, shrunk and pale,

tucked tail and she’s left a message.

You sense it will make you sad,

make you feel queasy, mean,

you open anyway, hit the screen,

furtive glance, check you’re unseen,

heartache, heartsease, in between.

Then, because this is not Hollywood

less glass slippers and more pumpkin:

delete. Bin it like she did back then

or else take it on the chin like men.