Love Story

Drunks in the street stagger to waiting wives
At chucking out. The cold road gleams like oil,
Littered with light from a few shops gazing
Empty-eyed into the indifferent night.
Buildings squat like black irregular teeth
Gapped by the silent cave of sleeping roads.
Another day has dropped from a useless life:
I’ll wander home, make coffee, go to bed.

Lunchtimes and evenings spent in public bars

With darts and talk, watching a silent telly
Shelved above the barmaid; the puerile jokes,
The loud and lengthy laughter, spittle strung
In an open mouth, a pint glass wobbling on
The table – these define my life waiting
For the door to open: lost love crouches
Beneath its shell, its smoke-stained sour charade.

I know an upstairs room where I could get

Some comfort, past the black grease of landings
Where thin doors hide the lonely toil of life.
But such a grim fumble sickens the past
And fouls the hour when I must face myself,
Loosed on the street, the cramped throat of the city,
Lonely without you, my lover, my love.
I’ll wander home, make coffee, go to bed.

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© circa 1973-76