I'm sweet. I'm petite. I can rave. I can groove.
Hung-over just slightly but really don't show it.
This little red dress is snug as a glove.
I just hope they don't fix me up with a poet.
Mascara. Tiara. Blusher. High heels.
A wild oat remaining and ready to sow it.
Let's hope he'll have money. Let's hope he'll have wheels.
But let me not end up in bed with a poet.
No noting, no quoting, no 'wrote you a poem',
no armed with own trumpet and desperate to blow it;
no name-dropping (Armitage? met him? I know
Dear God, please remember: I don't want a poet.
If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear