After I thought I’d risen above the naffness:
all that nonchalant throwing of the hat onto the stand,
the eyebrows like handlebars, the licence to pun.
Sean still floats my leaky boat.
Perhaps it’s that scene in From Russia With Love
where he’s alone, undressing for the shower,
slipping off polished shoes and flinging
his shirt behind him like he hates it;
all big-cat arrogance and slumberous grace.
Then there’s that hairline crack
of tenderness when he asks the woman be spared;
the complicated gun-sling under the evening suit.
I know at 55 I’m meant to hate
the way Sean grabs at broads as they sashay
close enough to be caught; the swift
up-down-up first look that skims
with practised ease over stockinged legs, dewy lips.
Instead I turn into hot fudge
at the growl and purr of that voice
that can say take off your dress in six languages;
the love of Turkish tobacco blends,
the knowledge of fifty shades of dryness
in a vermouth; the room service order
for thick chilled yoghourt and green figs for breakfast.
At 55 I want all these things back again
as if I’d ever had them.
Aston Martins trembling in the shadows,
iced caviar on silver trays, and Sean –
padding across his hotel room in his socks,
checking for bugs the paintings, the light fittings.
‘At 55 I Still Fancy Sean Connery’ was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2017)