Inside us is a dark room where
our shame gets tired of waiting.
At first we don’t admit it’s there,
we don’t do introspection.
The trouble starts with dating:
so many men prioritise
some quirky predilection,
some body shape or size.
My own turn-on, I hesitate
to say, is more unusual.
It freaks dates out on any date
that plays out in the bedroom.
It leads to blank refusal.
I need to hear my partner talk,
filling up all my headroom,
all night about their work.
Tirades about tight deadlines take
my heart to higher regions.
Team conflicts nudge me wide awake,
spreadsheets float me to heaven.
I’m thrilled by tech bug legions.
Work stress, once needed, now expired,
retreats to age’s haven,
a treat now I’m retired.
