All through this black moon night
I’ve been woken by offers of sex
and the weeping chorus of balcony dogs.
I ask you to turn on the fan, to lift off the duvet,
but you refuse, telling me the names of your girlfriends
and all the books you’ve read lately.
I put on your shearling coat and empty its pockets.
I pummel you with mitten fists
until you cry out that you invented ironic,
before the Internet, you invented it!
I jump on you again.
I’m going to marry an American,
I tell you, but it won’t be you.
You say you hadn’t asked.