Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Media Romance

It was really quite romantic
just like a hair spray ad.
He offered her a scarlet rose,
the last the florist had.
She thought the flower beautiful
'though only still a bud,
she had no way of knowing
this rose had roots in mud.

He asked her for a drink right then,
she considered for a while
(not wishing to appear too keen),
before agreeing with a smile.
They went into a little bar
a short way up the street.
He ordered her a glass of wine,
himself a whisky, neat.

He told her that his name was Mike,
a 'Key Man' in P.R.
He had a 'spread' near Swindon
and a large teutonic car.
He was needed in the city
so he kept a pad in town
he'd be pleased to "have her over"
whenever she was down.

He reached across the tabletop
and placed his hand on hers.
Just then there was a blinding light:
a flash, a click, a whirr.
"Damn that bloody man!" he said,
"I'll sort him out this time
-and he was gone just like a shot,
or a sprinter from the line.

So on her homeward train that night
she gave it all some thought.
She looked again upon the rose
the creepy git had bought.
But now the bud was opening
it was easy to perceive,
this rose was not perfection
it was eaten with disease.

She cursed herself for getting caught,
the things she should have seen.
On his hand the untanned band
where a wedding ring had been.
She realised that the camera man
must be his wife's detective;
she threw away the bloody rose
by any name defective.

c. Marc Woodward

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