Martini Man

Blondes, brunettes, ginger nuts,
I’ve had ’em all, sunshine. Could be
Janet the cleaner or that Irish cook
at the day nursery. A dead cert’s
Aunty Pat. What Aunty Pat?
His wife puts two and two together.

But in the back of his minivan?
Unsnaring her heel from his bosun’s chair,
ruining her Wolford’s on a gripper rod.
From a dust sheet, wood slivers
and flecks of paint adhere to her pasty arse,
her perfume made nameless by linseed.

He lies back thinking of cricket bats
and summer fences. Tells her
how it works for kneading old putty:
softening it up, bringing it to life.
Got to look after your hands:
the golden rule for any tradesman.