Here I am now; old, empty, fraudulent
The first time he had seen her
A few chocolate eclairs
Sahara
I wish sometimes I could get at my DNA
Cups clinked, someone coughed, then it was over
He began by trying to be nice
The workshop doesn't go that well but it goes.
A man who fell down a well
He suggests a small, pleasant cafe
For the rest of the day their exchanges are charged
He answers as truthfully as he can
They arrange to meet at high noon
He still teaches, he says, but everything is so-fucking-what
Perhaps he's too old to prance about in Lycra
They are hidden, sitting in shadow, giggling
There's a moon, half cloud-rubbed, half cliff-hidden
Your father might explain, if he could speak
Friday afternoon, very cold
The night winds down. A few people smoke.
Oh, Beth, my lover, try not to laugh
She blows her nose and wipes her face
There is nobody to meet the honoured guest
Warm gammon, wool chips, an egg from an ark chicken
They used to call me Snow White
Now I'm from the Staffordshire Smythes
No comments:
Post a Comment