Neg

He combs the covent garden cafes,
pockets full of pens and postcards
looking for girls whose poems feature
the colour of their hearts,
their favourite moment of sky.

He teas them, buys cream cakes,
proffers tepid tap water as if it were saliva.
He asks them if they like their body,
have they ever really loved,
when the last time was, they gripped a table
and asked everyone to be quiet.

If they fit, they fall right in
among the bics and pictures.
And there he holds them
until home, when, spread across his bed,
he kisses their elbows,
follows logic from shoulder,
to neck and ear where,
mouth open and dry,
he hovers and says:
'you know, you're no ones favourite person.'