Like the changing

tide, we ebb and

flow, say yes,

no, maybe as

we tango round

Barbara Streisand.

Innocent gestures

become highly

charged “do you

want a cup of tea?”

translates as “you

want me don’t you?”

Though I decline

my mind is flooded   

with unsolicited

images of,

not only, a big

mug of steamy

brew but also a

digestive to dunk in it’s

warm wet depths.

Perplexed I

scurry off to safety

slamming the door in

Barbara’s face and

bury mine in a book,

hoping for distraction.

Confusion rains

blurring words

to hissing steam,

lifting them clean

off the page,

sucked into clouds

of oozing oestrogen,

drifting draughts

drawn undeniably to the

crack under the door,

down the hall,

onto the stairs

meeting your

heat seeking

testosterone. Unleashed

evanescense collides, a

flurry of pheromones

shimmering, shimmering. 

I plug the door

with a towel

and use my body

as a barricade

against the feisty fog

hammering for access.

Phone rings,

it’s Barry White,

“hey baby”

“fuck off Barry,

now is not the time!”

My desire morphs

into the ethereal

female form of

bodicea riding

her chariot,

driven by a team

of thunder hooved

black stallions,

all hair flowing in

the wind and scantily

clad in something

made from scraps

of leather.

Someone is shimmying

up the drainpipe to

my window, it’s

Barry again, stealing

in and out with my

resolve. A voice

shouts up from

downstairs… what’s that?

Do I want tea?

“Do we have any digestives?”