Female Pan

Female Pan is back again.
She's choked your mobile
with a deadly parasite
and now some love strumpet
inhabits the mild zone
of your voicemail—Frightened
of your own breath, girl—
it moans.

On the walk to work
falling petals bear
the names of your associates.
You're going to turn up
looking like some bedraggled Primavera.
There, that's lovely, she mutters
through the last mouthful of your filofax,
a woman should always wear flowers.

Lately, you've let her take your elbow
at the supermarket, queues in banks.
She whispers her own green special offers
down into your list of non-essentials.
Says she's not interested in loans
with fixed terms and then she's gone,
leaving a trail of what pleased her cud
and she wants you to follow.