Well, into one’s fifties…
Lay-bys and fading ladies –
the headlights hide everything.
I have a list of postcodes.
Sorry, no satnav.
What about aggro?
A dig in the ribs, clip of heels at the school-gates –
immigrants flying – papers say “micro-aggression”.
Jostling at the cash-machine;
excavation of their back lawn;
excrement through the letterbox.
Or a nightclub punch-up.
The anaesthetics of aftershave – a grab for some tits;
bouncers launching to separate you and boyfriend.
Rip out his nose-stud for trophy.
You’re supposed to be my doctor.
It’s therapeutic, efficacious for both.
We all hate each other since the vote.
Like strutting Indian/Pakistani border guards?