London

At fifty, she misses the breast

That grew in her thirteenth year

And was removed last month. She misses

The small car she drove through the seaside town

And along cliffs for miles. In London

She will not take the tube, is afraid of taxis.

We choose a random bar. She sits by me,

Looking along the jacketed line of men’s

Lunchtime backs, drinks her vermouth.

I see her eye slide to the left;

At the counter’s end sits a high metal urn.

What are you staring at? That polished curve,

The glint wavering on steel, the features

Of our stranger neighbour distorted.

You can’t see it from where you are.

When that streak of crooked light

Goes out, my life is over.

                                         1981