Full of mothers
in old cars
with bald tyres
while the fathers
park the brand-new,
interest-free, turbo-charged,
male symbol in the
office carpark
all day.
"What would you say if I told you
I was in love with a forty-one
year old," my eighteen
year old asked me.
I'd say, "He's probably married
And his wife
and his children would hate you
for the rest of your life."
The first punch isn't a warning
it's a symptom of the disease
pack your bags
wake the kids, leave
the infected area
Shaves her legs
In the bath.
Leaves blood around
The lavatory seat.
Knows her own mind
and is prepared
to fuck with it.
Avoids and evades
the pleasant path
of romance and heads
instead for
androgynous
and intrusive invasion.