I met Madonna in a dream run

by the Foster Care Co-op 

for parents who’d adopted

from unusual angles.

We split into pairs

to address a dilemma

and she sat at my table

all crucifix and cleavage

revealing how she used

the kids to keep a handle

on the teenage market.

An in-house focus group;

it beats climbing chimneys

and it’s tough at the top

in this cut throat business,

the touring and the tantrums

and it wasn’t working out

with Lionel Richie;

she barely had time

to practise the Kabbalah.

I said my dancing days are over

and I don’t get out too often -

just a gig now and then

and the pub quiz on a Tuesday.

When we made our presentation

the others poured scorn on her

badass image and blasphemous lyrics.

I defended her oeuvre

with my best conviction.

She asked me my favourite,

I gave Just Like A Virgin.

She was itching for a spot  

in the quiz team on Tuesdays.

I told her all seats were taken.

She’d have been really useful

in the Music section

but I couldn’t disband

the family unit.