Howard Firkin
Her clothes are one of her obsessions. I’m
not. Lovers take up wardrobe space and time
she hasn’t got to spare—she’s twenty-eight—
you may not like it but you’ll wear it, mate.
She stands before the mirror, pats her hips.
We’re just another couple here and speak
above the other couples of the week
we’ve spend apart: she tells me what she wants,
and nothing changes but the restaurants.
Her words are an excuse to watch her lips.
She drops me home. She’s halfway down the street
before the bad gear change that’s her goodbye.
At home she’ll let the dress fall round her feet—
she’s leaving all obsessions where they lie.
not. Lovers take up wardrobe space and time
she hasn’t got to spare—she’s twenty-eight—
you may not like it but you’ll wear it, mate.
She stands before the mirror, pats her hips.
We’re just another couple here and speak
above the other couples of the week
we’ve spend apart: she tells me what she wants,
and nothing changes but the restaurants.
Her words are an excuse to watch her lips.
She drops me home. She’s halfway down the street
before the bad gear change that’s her goodbye.
At home she’ll let the dress fall round her feet—
she’s leaving all obsessions where they lie.