She comes up; tells me who she’s going to be
and who she’s met, she’s so transparent;
believes that, if she doesn’t talk about herself,
she might vanish.
I love her, you can tell.
And when she walks she sparkles,
draws money from the cash-point,
turns, goes back on her word, argues.
All day thinking about her,
into the wet shining night we go,
into the Sky Sports bar:
it comes off the post again,
falls to a defender.