Poulet de Bresse

In no time at all after that meeting in Cellini's
I had to find ways of missing out the love thing,
Painting in dates at the festival
Where that dress you were barely wearing
And the strap which kept coming down
Tantalisingly were, and I brushed the collar bone
With a kiss, while whispering about the strange
Arrangement in Orsino's tights. How,
When we ate at the Connaught
In the early evening brown hush,
We smirked behind our superior finger
Resting on our lips, as the Americans asked
If they had any wine? That was, I think,
The weekend before we engineered
An afternoon of lust and television
...