Harry writes poetry. One, published in the Gardener’s Seasonal Daily, was about planting seeds.
But Harry had a dark side and whenever he thought of Lady Smock’s curly hair post-coitus he got upset. She had a disturbing flat spot, made so by her head crushed on the pillow, eyes open, smiling as he took her. It never perked up afterwards.
Curly twirly halos tossed
pepper-upper exhibitionist whorls
invitations to bouncing conversations
but mostly confirmation
that casual sex doesn’t show
on a bed-head.
at the back a
depressed spot but
you can’t see it.