I'm taller than him. Only by inches

but they feel like feet. In our love clinches

I'm the whale, the giant, leviathan,

while he's tiny Tim, undersized and thin.

He's compact, contracted from head to foot,

a neat nut while I'm some exotic fruit,

my ripe flesh too succulent, too female.

I'm a Beryl Cook barrel of a girl.

When we go out, I stoop like I'm ashamed,

shrink, hide, apologise, wait to be blamed

for dwarfing the man, even in his hat.

`Sorry for this,' I cringe. `Sorry for that.'

You'd think I was a bloody Amazon,