Roger Federer came to my bed last night
and said he was in love with me.
But you were once the world’s number one tennis player,
He shrugged, modestly:
there was a play on at the West Yorkshire Playhouse
he wanted to take me to.
I told him I could get free tickets
and surrendered to his embrace
though I was bit worried
what you would think.
Then—horror—I heard the front door go
and you called up the stairs
in that eager, sweet way of yours
and Roger shot out of bed
and put on his headband
and one of the turquoise tee-shirts he wore
to beat Andy Murray in the 2010 Australian Open.
I stayed put: I knew the game was up.
And Roger was cool
And Roger was hot
And Roger was willing to take me away
from our terraced house
with the problem chimney
and the low mains pressure
and all your failings
and maybe some of my own.
But as the bedroom door flew open
all I had were questions
it was now too late to ask.
Will you let the dog up on the bed, Roger?
Will you make an effort to get on with my Dad?
When I wake in the night, frightened,
Will you make tea and talk to me?
And when I dream of Rafael Nadal
will you see the funny side?