waiting rooms

In all the possible
legitimate lengths of days
and ways I could choose to spend them
the last thing on my mind, and it's no surprise,
was sitting in the SHC (sexual health clinic).
And while we're talking of it
the last possible reason for liasing
with the rest of mankind
is to be felt up by a face of thunder.
Brunette's finger inside my vagina, wiggling, while asking about my week
and telling me that if there's anything to worry about
I'll know in ten days.
Of course, though, we've had dear Queenie's jubilee so it could be
a little longer.
And, of course, because the world loves to kick you when
you're down it would be due to a single girl
wrapping her lips around a taken man
and his foolish, little missus...
Sitting in the SHC
wanting to be told it could kill her.