The Spanish poet

“Where’s my a thousand kisses?” he said

“Like you gave the Spanish poet?”

Urgently recalling the story I must have told carelessly over a pillow, I said

“Maybe I was simply showing him how to count in English?”

“1,2,3 etcetera”

“Rather than showing the depth of my affection”

“Where’s my a thousand kisses?” he said “that you gave the Spanish poet in the manor park?”

I said “darling KNOW that you are loved but I’m 999 kisses short of loving with that ferocity and grandness​ ever again”

“Sometimes a human being can be done with crazy love”

“Where’s my thousand kisses that you gave the Spanish poet in the manor park, beside the duck pond?

“It’s not a numbers game sweetness I must protest”

“Maybe I was just feeling guilty about not loving him the way he wanted me to”

“So I kissed him over and over like a hammer”

“Where is my a thousand kisses you gave the Spanish poet in the manor park, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree?”

“Darling stop”

“Fancy passion is a folly so silly and eventually decrepit, merely a mention as a car whizzes by on route to the the big house”

“One kiss, curious and meant, is worth a thousand in the manor park, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree”

“Why not wait for the one kiss that is meant?”

“Where is my a thousand kisses you gave the Spanish poet in the manor park beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree, one glorious summers day?”

“He was Spanish dear, love is a dance”

“And you gentle man are English”

“A thousand kisses in the manor park, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree, one glorious summers day…would be akin to murder!”

“Now lay your bugged head down and sleep and forget the Spanish poet”

“He is probably writing a poem right now about the notorious Australian love bomber”