The door jarred
in a blaze of security locks,
burnished by the morning sun.
I saw him through that crack,
scratching a chin full
of Mephistophelean stubble
an aureole of light around him.
Blinded by light and eyes
clogged with the Sandman’s grit,
I growled, ‘Who the Devil is it?’
The smell of muesli, early fry-ups
greasing the air, the taint of bacon,
the whiff of prunes and burnt toast
wafted along the street, assailing my nostrils.
Blearily, I looked him up and down;
took in those predatory eyes,
skin like manila envelopes,
the stamp of a postal uniform,
a peaked cap covering ivory,
cloven feet hidden by
highly polished brogues.
What a tempting sight.
I noticed my Scabious
creeping upon the doorstep
amongst empty milk bottles.
I was too busy swooning
to realise what the detail meant.
I suppose it was a stupid thing to do,
to take one look at his package
and assume it was for me. Silly.
To sign my life away
and still ask what I owed,
as he drummed out a tattoo
on my doorframe.
Yet, he gave me the horn,
in my rabbit slippers
and boxer shorts.
Licking my lips like gummed paper,
I filled his form,
imagining how I could entice him in,
perform at least thirteen clichés
before sending him on his rounds.
No bed of rose petals for me,
but bills, postcards, junk,
sifting beneath us as we writhe
all devil may care!
I wondered when we could get bonded.
He just smiled, the bargain done,
I passed the signed pact back without
any thought, waiting for my mail.
His eyes contracted to narrow slits,
my soul sold for the promise of a fumble.
Eternity seems longer now than a whiff
of his fragrance. The Devil may be an ass,
but what an ass it is.