Requested through a plume of beer
Forgotten mine, pass yours here
With well-rehearsed exasperation
I conduct a faux exploration
As he, helpfully, goes on to stress
Their necessity to our ingress
Kitchen, you think? Or sitting room?
(As they nestle in their grosgrain tomb)
In disbelief he blinks at me
You’re always the one with a key
In reply: half speak, part sing:
I’m not always, anything
Maintaining , still, my keys are lost
I gamely bear the locksmith’s cost
On paper, a pyrrhic victory
But nobody should rely on me
Jemima Laing 