He came wanting attention; I lent him an ear
The customer’s right though my salary’s mine
He yearned for agreement – I gave it, I fear
Though he talked to my chest while I handed him wine

Thus he told me his tales of imagined offence
As I gave him a smile and then paid him no heed
For it’s hard to engage with a tale that’s pretence
Just another man wishing I’d plug up his need

Then his manner grew crass and I gave a small start
As his hand crossed the bench into room not his own
And he hissed snaking words he’d got down to an art
As he told what he’d do if I gave him a go

Yet I too have words I am willing to mention
If stuck at the bar with a man out of luck
For if I give one thing even less than attention
I fear it would have to be giving a f–––.

Rosalind Moran


Rosalind Moran is an author of both fiction and non-fiction who has written for various anthologies, websites, and online journals. She has spoken at the National Young Writers’ Festival and Noted, and enjoys making rhyming birthday cards for her friends.

© 2017