(after Waiting for Marianne)
Women
in your poems
hold power
like pegs
over socks
on a windy day –
limited
but vice-like.
You
self-deprecate
cunningly –
just a humble sock
right?
A humble sock
jam-bloody-packed
with
that heady smell
of sunlight,
detergent
and the day’s breezes.
I want that sock
on my pillow
to sniff immoderately.
A peg, you say?
Happily.
Out of the Cave 