Howard Firkin
No one remembers hopes
or shopping lists
and if they turn up in the bottom of a drawer,
behind a cupboard, as a bookmark,
words are only words again:
the figures danced the night
the every night
Need squired tired Capability
and daggy old Desire tried all night
to cut in—tap, tap, May I?
Never. Sweet but too effete he cuts the scene
eyes glistening with regret’s salt brilliantine
and leaves them to it.

It’s not uncomfortable here any more
sitting in the hard chair hard against the wall
well off the floor
silly as a boutonnière ungazed on
gazing on affairs afar and wilting
while your pumps tap