(in memoriam Philip Larkin, 1922-1985)
Laundry strung above the alleys,
cats and plastic flowers in selective
windows. The sounds of lunchtime
and the sad, quiet hours which follow.
Brusque movement, silenced by plate glass,
the perfect surface reflecting shadows
and clouds, a hum set buzzing where
twitched by traffic, pitch dictated
by truck or van or braking bus.
Hold for a still moment the air littering
its lights upon the fingers slow in
chordal skill. This unmaking is a dream
told by passersby, knowing perhaps the answer
and the trap of its choice but blind
to the riddle, the frame, the nature
of the heart, ticking down to the trigger
and its wealth of possible disasters.
Any of these might prompt the frieze
from memory. Swift, stingy of strokes,
no more of a pause than a doe
at her look-around. Undumb the allegory
however, and there would be the halt and
hang, the questions sheathed, evasion-capped.
What is asked of oneself is this:
Why would the shadows choose to be alone
with her, the pretty one, the flatterer?
The endless caveat, the drop-offs sequential,
the admirable cunning that plays up
the expected imperfection. Beyond that
there is the risk of treading air,
and surmise is a whisper, lice supping
on wings of stone. The shadows lean,
pleased at the attention (and moving backward?)
The lilt of her torso, the emerald stitching
at the small of her back, the darkness shaken
like a curtain, surrendering to curl and stroke.
Happiness is here with her as well,
a slight throb in the chinoiserie of the
wallpaper, the coral light that pools around them,
the prudent ones, the precise ones, the tryst-
watchers. The cash register snaps with the licorice
of youth, a demonic song tinning down
from the rooftop, and meaningless leaflets,
so many of them, veering overhead to disappear
on a sideways slide, lost in the sun haze.