Sport 23: Spring 1999
Between the city and me
was only an ancient door
I'd painted orange.
Mounting treacherous steps,
Peter Olds brought sausages and plonk.
The wardrobe contained
a thousand and one empties.
In the fullness of time,
someone would smash the big mirror.
My father dies;
I'm diagnosed as having … never mind;
my longing for a leggy journalist
is slowly starved to death.
Yes, where I heal I'm bland.
A coffee bar provides
festivity enough, my daily fix.
I read the blackboard chalked in limes and pinks:
Obey you thirst—
Bacon and Eggs, $6.00—
Extract me the soldier from the sputnik.
My melting moment tastes of garlic.