Careless Love Poem by David Lambourne

A wandering wasp batters the lightbulb
over and over. You'd think a thing
would learn not to do that. As for me,
I've had enough, pushing and straining to get rid.

Yes, mop my face, forget the rest of me,
which isn't fit for viewing in this state.
It's all woman though, failing the perfume and the dress.
If this was a film (which it is not, thank God)

I'd have wardrobe and make-up fussing over me.
Now I've got no-one but this girl
who knows about as much as any woman who
hasn't gone through the thing herself.

A final push. And there - it's gone, it's free!
No thanks to you, my dearest one.
You're too much like the bastard in the song
who's passed the door (uh-huh) and won't come in.

Go on then: hand him to me - you can clean him off later.
But first he needs the breast. His mouth
fastens to the nipple like a leech. And there's that wasp again,
battering and battering to no good purpose. It never stops.