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Ken Champion

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Game

Must fly, I lie, to Toby and Mo’s,
told them I’d stay a few days.
I’ll ring when I’m back.
I never do. I never go. I say it to all of them.
Datelinedotcom women.
They like the ad.

Tall, attractive, professional male,
sensitive, caring, into art and poetry,
likes cosy nights out, exciting nights in,
seeking someone to share with on all levels.
I then add, if you intuitively feel we have
things in common, give me a bell…
 They love that.

I’m good on the phone, laid back on the couch,
seductive tones, old patter for new intros.
Ugandans are pleased when I recognise Acholi
or goldbangled Nigerians their fat, deep chuckles.
And a Moroccan is delighted when I use a little French,
whilst a Watford widow feels a frisson of fire
when I tell her I look like David Niven at forty.

But they’re never quite right; too small, old, fat, cold,
fraught, short, short of cash, short of brain
(like the one who told me she was beautiful inside)
or too persistent, insistent and a mere rumour of humour.
Though I’ve just finished chatting to a slim five seven
ex-model therapist with a voice so soft
a plastic phone was too brutal for it.

I suggested Tate Modem, we could eat there, too.
Love to, she breathed, but I’ve promised a friend
I’d stay the weekend.
But, I’ll give you a ring.
When I get back.

 

Page(s) 6-7

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