Forgotten dramas and faded pictures
Haunt my thoughts this night.
Hands run through greasy hair,
Tea tastes of tannin.
These things have no place, position,
All dislocated in time, tide and treason.
I move, chimera-like from one backdrop
To the next backdrop,
Learning my lines badly, always
Missing my cues. Each evening
I die. Tomorrow another play.
Fortune favours the brave, but fame
Led to the days of summer.
But I am older now.
Blossom wet, brown, forlorn at my feet.
Damage all done.
Wastage amortized.
Misdemeanours forgiven.
Christmas cards, well meant, heighten
The bad tastes in my mouth, the redness
Of my eyes. The tiredness of my bones.
No tomorrow IS another day.
But tomorrow is tonight.
Birmingham, summer 1989
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