His Black Umbrella

Furled, I am coy in
Gathered skirts.
Victorian, melancholy,
Tight-laced, prim-parcelled and
Stiff as a witch’s hat.
Wet days, you disturb
My folded bat sleeping.
You lift my skirts.
Tickle my ribs-
Oh, you want me when you need me, alright!
Such hurry when you loose my fastenings!
In rain
I galleon ride the tides
My sleet-stippled skin stretches
Wet-seal sleek.
I make you anonymous, cave captured.
So possessive,
Your young man’s lust.
So false
This sweaty welding!
You clutch my neck and we buffet away together
It’s a curious camping you do under my tent…
Ridiculous, your puddling ardour!
Shelter…and you leave me
Leggy as a drowned spider-
Slattern spokes, doorstep dumped.
I may be picked up by another!
There are lies in our wet encounters
Deep in my heart of noir
I know you are a user.