He invited her in for a shag and, because it was cold,
and she fancied the chances of warming herself on warm rugs,
and the forecast was bitter with blizzards and snowbanks foretold,
she accepted and leapt in. Put off by his cumbersome hugs

she cornered the market on freestanding chairs and sat down.
‘Where’s the drink then?’ she asked, emphasising seduction has rules
and wondering had he. ‘Ah, subjunctive,’ he said with a frown.
‘Champagne in a bucket. Next thing you’ll be asking for jewels.’

‘Your thought reading’s lousy,’ she said. With a quick thought she sallied
out into the blizzard. He chased, as she reckoned he would.
She darted back in, slammed the door, for a split second dallied
with relenting, but did not. By morn he was froze hard as wood.

© Alan Reynolds (as are all poems and prose scraps here at Jackdaw Dollops)