That ashen sky made everything
despondent, as though even grief
had abandoned us and cleared the way
for a Greek tragedy. That was the feeling
anyway. A dog pissed against that broken
pillar which once supported the station master’s
small house. The wind had not yet remembered
us. You looked down, examining your shoes,
I wanted to get away. The station clock
clicked another minute, and told us
that the train would come in twelve.
Why had I said yes? Shame festered
in my stomach, and my brain spun
a purple weave. I had given in,
and you had loved it, lying to yourself
about the purpose of my presence.
Spend the night, you'd begged.
For you it finished there.
For me it finished then.
                        

Bring on the old routine. My tea
at eight-thirty, lunch by two.
No new lovers – or old ones.
Spare me the vicar’s invitation.
 
I don’t want surprises. Protect
me from the new crop
of serious young intellectuals.
Don't corner me in order to explain
the subscript of Kubrick's 2001.
 
Everyone’s opinions are formed
by everyone’s opinions and 
I finally want to misbehave
by thinking out loud
for myself.