affection

Inflating our chests like pouter pigeons on a ledge,
we graduate in courtship from examining our badges,
to matching favoured flavours of iced cream,
or dreaming the scenes in lavish travel brochures.
Gauche, but still brash, I stand fumbling
with dumb buttons, in a cramped bunker where clanking
mechanical gadgets - which I do not comprehend -
send me fizzing in a tizzy of futile response.
Fronds of glowing lava, treacle-thick,
trickle in imagined pageant of love from the mountain's
fountain, when in truth the dormant crater waits
with bated breath, but no fire in its belly.
So as I hover round to plant my kiss,
see too well that Cupid's arrows missed.