Ah, life. You’re a late-night run
to the off-licence through the rain.
You’re scrapped out-takes
from a Beach Boys album.
You’re Albert Camus with a fag
absurdly hanging from his lip.
You’re a diminuendo piano
in a cocktail bar, an aria
in some foreign city,
a gallery hung with Rothkos
and other strange effects.
In the clinch of public transport
innovations, I’m gnawing at
a sandwich. That’s how
it comes and goes. The flow
and ebb's a world away:
things I remember, like
