I am 50, with tight hamstrings
 on the mat at the soccer club
 squeezing my pelvic floor 
 practising, breathing in and out
  
 The outward breath is a rush
 like the end of sex or perhaps
 the beginning, who knows, but
 it is a collective womb-like sigh
  
 I’m older than most of the other
 women, their tight bright bums
 and their talk of babies, or
 troubles with the teachers
  
 My troublesome two are adults
 and I’m fascinated, eavesdropping
 to know just how obsessed these
 tight bright bums are with mothering
  
 I hear of sex as a tradeable commodity
 a reward, a bribe, a something to
 feed in dribs and drabs like a treat to
 eat, if you promise to be a good boy
 
  
 I realise I had it all wrong perhaps
 the fact I thought sex was recreational
 essential, mutual and uncomplicated
 something two people enjoyed 
  
 I’m relieved I’m not a tight bright
 bum in fluro who trades sex for
 income or sex for a South Pacific bure
 that I can earn my own holidays thanks
  
 I hunker down on the mat, continue
 breathing, glad my pelvic floor is
 responding, pleased it’s not been
 wasted as a bargaining chip.