Letters never sent, conversations that never happened, events that never had a chance to happen. Don't you love what ifs? Couldn't you live on them alone?
FORTUNE'S FOOL
She called me from a bedsit in London,
begging for child support or some love,
whatever I could spare: five minutes, I said.
We talked for hours about the weather,
self-published poetry and paperbacks,
dime-a-dozen comics from rundown shops,
the latest Turner Prize: edgy, she said,
very edgy.
What do you remember most? she asked. Sex,
I said, and doughnuts on the Brighton beach;
magicians on the streets of Slough, clowns,
the greasy frying smell of Reading Fair.
What do you remember? I asked.
.....Memories, she said.
We read Wordsworth like a body in the morgue;
silent hours with Auden, Dostoevsky,
carrying suspended conversations
to our doubled single beds: deep, useless.
I call her from a bedsit in Paris:
five minutes, I say, anything you've got.
For you -- she smiles -- all the time in the world.
She hangs up.
