Meet Sue, librarian by day,
I’m sure you know the meme;
you know all her parts already, right?
Glasses, hair clips, jacket prim,
primed to be tossed away, the raunch revealed,
the fox beneath unleashed on men,
flicked as carelessly aside as panties.
I needed her to play for me,
my poem’s leading role;
she quit on me, she wouldn’t dance,
flounced out of my imagination.
Bereft, I had to get a temp,
a surly radiographer stood in.
Face as clunky as her shoes,
all business and no pleasure, her,
my poem tired of her restriction.
But Sue turfed up again unasked,
her torrent was my torment,
insisted on a walk-on part,
in a sonnet of her writing.
Now she sits on my settee,
slurps ice cream and green Chinese tea,
too much fire to be my cliché.
Paul Vaughan is a custard-hating (unless it’s in a vanilla slice) poet living in Yorkshire, England. He has poems forthcoming in The Seventh Quarry, Sarasvati and The Curly Mind, and regularly inflicts his work on open mic audiences daft enough not to run away.