Margot & I.

Margot & I.

We sit at the end of the pier, Margot & I, watching fishing boats return.
Eating fish ‘n’ chips, Seagulls hover like vultures.
We both love the sea.
She is wearing a Brexit tee.
The slogan plump with her breasts states: ‘Fuck Brexit.”
But I love Brexit. And I love Margot.
I can multitask my love, you see.
It’s possible people, try it.

She’s a rich Boho playing at poverty, and doesn’t have to work.
I’m poor, poor, pour me another drink, working class, 
And worked since puberty, now tired, almost flaccid.
But Margot is my Viagra. She gets me-up every day.
Today, unusually, she’s not overdressed:
Camo leggings, a flamingo-pink fedora, and that smile.
That smile gets attention. Margot gets attention. I don’t.
Margot loves me, well, she says she does, especially when high,
And that’s enough.

She is severely anxious that her labia and thigh-gap ‘aren’t right.’
“They’re fine, I promise. They look like every other i’ve seen.”
“And your thigh-gap is perfect,” (she hasn’t one). I kiss her cheek. 
But what do I know about labia? 
What do I know about thigh-gaps?
Only that all women have them, and some women want one. 
But I love Margot regardless.
She’s perfection, and always will be.
(Even in that t-shirt).