These days I can touch
what I can’t really afford

thanks to technology
and flexible credit terms.

Fifteen grand’s a steal;
I’m in no rush for a new car.

You are wired to console me
and on the whole, do a cracking job.

I chose well: your hair coloured
how she sometimes chose

when she went to Mel’s
every six weeks or so,

sixty quid a pop I tried
not to resent her for:

deep burgundy
broken up by midnight blue.

But it’s only when you’re out of charge
that you really nail her look,

your eyes fixed on the woodchip
of our bedroom ceiling,

that look when something bothered her
but she didn’t want to share it

that screams don’t dare fucking touch me.

 

 

 

Mark Connors comperes the lively Leeds Word Club monthly poetry event, and has been widely published in magazines and anthologies. His collection Nothing is Meant to be Broken is published by Stairwell Books.