a Certain Age
In the shared taxi she has bagged the front seat
beside the Elvis-pretty driver.
Reclines as if already on a sun lounger
When does his shift end? Which clubs does he go to?
Her voice says late 40s, Louboutin heeled,
he giggles like a bashful girl, claims Little English.
But she has key phrases and gestures expressive as deaf
so they manage a slow dance chat all the way into Side.
Two weeks sleeping in the sun all day like a cat,
evenings accessorised with scotch and Marlboro,
she will out-gyrate the belly girls,
that night’s young man tip-toeing from her room
at 6 am clutching a hundred lira tip.
So disembarking at our hotel first,
she smirks back at my silently smiled You go girl.
In a Side side street I am snared by
cheap eye brow threading.
As the young man cats cradles cotton ,
You have beautiful eyes, Are they contacts?
Years since wolf whistles stopped,
I shed 25 years at his compliment.
Studying more than the shape of my eyebrows
he reads, middle aged, British, alone,
begins to offer a la carte services
I can lick your pussy; bang until you bleed…
takes my laughter behind hands as coy fan coquetry.
I lead him on with empty Yes, half believing,
despite this town’s fake Rolex, Mulberrys…
his I will not charge because you are pretty.
But at his sudden What time shall I come to your hotel
I thrust 20 lira at him, escape with a savvy 50 year olds
bad cheque promise to call the number on his card later.
Scurry back to You should not be allowed out alone.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear from you.