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EFFY’S
Senorita
in Hay, your kissy smile
could sell me more than a bottle;
your
restaurant is run with the ritzy style
of a friendly Victorian brothel.
On
the house poster you are displayed
in a loose unVictorian posture,
in
camiknicks, dead-drunk, legs splayed,
and deserted by your mister.
The
rotter’s left you on the shelf
and in your bric-a-brac room
your
hand strays to undo yourself
because he does not come.
A
quote ornaments the picture, once
in a Telegraph report:
I
would go back to Hay to the warmth
of Effy’s dot dot dot.
And
on the daguerreotype you score
in biro to make me happy:
To
Alan—hope you come heaps more
with passion. Much love, Neffy.
Come
I will by the ferny holes
of my sleep and the dark Welsh hills,
into
your sleep, your ferny hollows
and your Welsh waterfalls.
Come
I will to your little oven
where the meat stirs in its juice.
Come
I will to the sexy kitchen
where the service is profuse.
Who
could desert such a fancy creature,
Effy-Neffy in Hay, with the cup?
I
am the man who is not in the picture.
I will come, and I’ll make it up.
Alan
Marshfield
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