TO MY TOY MISTRESS Wendy Webb
A million texts may pass before
my love grows cold and dim.
A thousand satellites all spin
to news your worth abroad.
A hundred birds take Avian flu
before you read my email
and fifty mannequins wait, undressed,
until you hit Delete.
Though I might toy with you, sweet Miss,
and sniff your youthful glue,
let us to sport and pizza, pray
the late bus – all Grim Reaper –
is too late.
I ache to be kept waiting until dawn.
Inspired by ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell