Poem: Love poem #2
This is the second of a tranche of love poems from 1996.
On the phone today
I told a man on the phone today
how our affair was going –
told him about taking you to see that old band –
The Who, and not your scene or mine –
and how you were the flash of glamour
in the waves of denim,
the splash of lipstick
the light-display hair
the smart shoes
slipping through the crowd
like a mermaid walking –
that walk that reminds me of swimming.
It’s a miracle you didn’t wear the coat
the one with the squirrel-trim to cuff and collar
the one which tells of years in apparel,
of the bright lights,
and the polished floor,
the customers who are half in love themselves,
half in love with you, that is,
because they want to buy the dream.
“I must fly”, I said,
“She expects dinner ready for the table when she gets home”.
“I’m surprised she unties you for long enough”, he said.
“No, it’s handcuffs”, I replied.
“But she takes them off for the day,
“so I can Hoover”.
And he said, “My God boy, you are living the dream,
“the whole nine yards
“the real McCoy”.
And I had hardly time to reflect on that,
what with getting out to Tesco’s
and wondering if we should go to the Wigmore
for chamber music tonight.