Arctic spunk
I caught him mid orgasm on my bedroom rug.
He said no matter how hard he tried, he saw hairdressers
slick popping lids off jars.
He said, it made him sit up like hamster hair on hinges.
I thought of toilet breaks in lay bys
the soft cheese sound of a wrist on a zip,
I said his soul was all coffee grains, bound with a shoelace
and left for the pub where new men sprung like pistons,
weevils in a paper bag, sputtering for space.
