People tell me I should try a little dating.
‘Go on, dear’, they trill, ‘It’s just the tonic’,
Their nagging tends to get a little grating,
so, I’ll meet you, Geoff, as long as it’s platonic.
It’s not easy for a spinster to engage
(at the age of sixty nine), with men at all,
and especially on a dating escapade.
I feel a tad embarrassed overall.
I’ll meet you at the library at six.
We’ll discuss the type of books you like to read.
Myself, I’m keen on art and politics.
I knit a bit and propagate from seed.
Grecian architecture tends to float my boat
also Romans and related artefacts.
More productive and engaging, take a note,
than spending time on body fluid acts.
There’ll be no talk of etchings in your room
so please don’t think I’m wet behind the ears.
It’s not the ears with urge incontinence, you know,
I like to have convenience quite near.
If we dine at all, I’ll do it Dutch, that’s fine,
but you mustn’t touch my veggies or my passion–fruit soufflé.
Food exchange is unhygienic, kindly keep your hands off mine
or I might pick up a virus. Golly! What would Mother say?
It’s companionship I fancy, not a physical display.
If we venture to the cinema, eyes front toward the screen.
I like a film that’s jovial, uplifting in some way.
Mary Poppins is my favourite. She’s never been obscene.
You may walk me to my cottage – ‘round the back,
avoiding twitchy curtains. Mrs Davenport’s the worst.
Don’t try to slip your hand inside my North Face anorak,
and no kissing. Too familiar, and you must meet Mother first.
Hello…hello, you listening or just a trifle deaf?
Say something…speak to me…I doubt I’ll ask again.
Geoff?…Geoff? That’s strange. The line’s gone dead.
I’ll speak to him on Tuesday. He can make his mind up then.
Moving Poems 