By Andrew Richards, Wallington

In the pub, we discuss the subject of our love,

the moon, the grace, the kitchen sink.

the drink turns unkind, and I say,

official likes and that other thing.

Over Chinese, we speak aloud of names,

for a certain direction,

ones relevant to playground games.

Colin would be cruel, and Gavin would come unstuck.

Ann would be heel-high, but Annie would run amuck.

John would like the rough stuff, but cuddle like a bear,

Bill would swallow his pride, and Clare...

she would not make a peep, but rarely be discreet.

In the taxi we laugh and grab the streetlights,

signal the roving shadows, grip the pavement.

Tony would be a ladies' man, Kevin would kill for sure.

Maggie would live a life alone,

and Kelly...she would not be calling us anymore.

Over coffee, I fiddle with the CDs,

Jimi would sour the mood, Phil would create unrest,

Barry would fill the room,

And Shirley...

In the morning I awake and without a sound,

view a tiny pill on the drawer crying aloud.

November 12, 2001 11:30