She Nestles

She nestles In her threadbare gown In a greasy-armed chair Carpet swirly-smelly On a wet dark winter's night. He sits Astride a motorbike Slick fish and chips Burning his belly Through wet dark city streets.

She sees him Dirty leather-clad Too tired to chat Locked out of home Blocking the telly

He turns And sits elsewhere Pulls up a different chair Feels vaguely silly Eats his chips

She sees He knows not what He knows Just what he sees The telly chitter-chatters

Tracy blows in through the door The silent spell is broken Who let this dirty bloke in? Wet trousers dripping on the floor She wouldn't give two flying flips But Michael's lost her flipping pay Eight wash & drys, a perm and only tips Ooo lovely, starving! Fish and chips!

His chips are gone. His housemate's home. He leaves. But not for long.