So your carte is entirely blanche
and you must name one man you fancy
having just listed twenty-six women
having lured me outside,
into the strained, ecstatic rain of fantasy.
I think. I Think. I THINK.
Paul Simonon, I say. In 1977. Not now.
Who? she says.
Paul Simonon. Does that make me gay? I say.
It depends, she says.
On what? I say.
On whether I'd fancy him too, she says.
Oh, I say.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone else
finds it all quite as confusing
as I do.