Helen Kitson
Talking Dirty
Lunchtime, the pub, the warmth
of too many bodies.
Brittle laughter scratches
like rusted tin.
We talk sex -
the infelicities of sex,
the jokes, indelicate terms -
the pokes, the bangs,
the man who shot his bolt;
and Tina's telling me
about this man and what she spat
into his shoe -
the left one, she thinks,
though it hardly matters.
We talk it more than we do it.
Some of us don’t do it at all
but these words and these jokes
can’t infect.
The talk is dirty, but it’s safe.
Page(s) 30
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- 14
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- Lamport Court
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- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
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