A man I am talking to online tells me he has been sleeping in a tent on a farm for four days. I don’t ask about it, but he tells me it’s a holiday. There are bedrooms inside but he likes the sound of nervous zippers in the wind, and talks to me about village green back home, and cricket, and dreams. I tell him about my garden - the way it bursts with fat weeds after summertime and I look up village green on the internet to find out what makes one, but instead I consider high necked pop stars with bowlcuts. The polyester encased man asks if I have The Kink for outdoor sex. He is attempting a pun.
oh yes I like a good hill side rump- I type, going along with a notion I find pitiful in reality; nervous zippers undoing in the wind.