Therapy by Paul Sutton

I am not a silent poet

How’s sex?

Well, into one’s fifties… 

Try dogging.  

Lay-bys and fading ladies –
the headlights hide everything.  

I have a list of postcodes.

Sorry, no satnav.

What about aggro?

A dig in the ribs, clip of heels at the school-gates –
immigrants flying – papers say “micro-aggression”. 

Jostling at the cash-machine;
excavation of their back lawn;
excrement through the letterbox.  

Or a nightclub punch-up.
The anaesthetics of aftershave – a grab for some tits;
bouncers launching to separate you and boyfriend.  

Rip out his nose-stud for trophy. 

You’re supposed to be my doctor. 

It’s therapeutic, efficacious for both.
Ritualised.
We all hate each other since the vote.

Like strutting Indian/Pakistani border guards? 

Tasteless simile.

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