Ulysses

Ulysses

In Bromley, over four decades ago,
My battered copy of Ulysses and a
Dog-eared notebook in one hand,
Endless cigarettes threaded through
The fingers of my other, I swan around
Feeling talented, find a concrete block
In the sun on which to sit to smoke and
Write with style, legwarmers and earrings
Adding to the androgyny of me, eyes not
In the pages but scanning the possibilities
Around the square, that hunger for change
And newness so alive, so urgent, so
Overwhelming nothing else matters.
The story is always the same; a few
Words out loud, too many words on
The page that never come to anything.

R 17/10/2024 17:54