I was the only man for the job.
She was wise to others’ tricks,
their lip service and hotel bathrobes.

I turned up with a carp in a bowl,
wrong-footed her with the gift of a fish,
the old classic. I wanted a twelve-night stand,

I told her, something to miss her by
but not so it hurt. The carp eyed her
through the lens of its water.

I ordered beef for both of us to chew over.
By the third course I had her sweating
alone in the ladies room.

Back at the table I took photos: her lip print
on the glass, her parallel cutlery, the napkin
folded like a flag, the contents of her purse.

JACK UNDERWOOD was born in Norwich in 1984. He co-edits a pamphlet of young poets entitled Stop sharpening your knives so I can think for a second. He read at this year’s Wells-next-the-Sea festival.

© Copyright of this poem remains with the poet: please do not download or republish without permission.

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