I’ll remember the advice:
gin best with tonic
and steer clear of raw fish,
no worries!
But who
will think of you on empty pages,
who, after the note on the typeface,
will provide you with names,
a fire escape,
a pet poison?
Last traces
of claret stains and carpet slippers.
But the taxi is on its way,
the lines are ticking sullenly by.
No more hope
of Roman numerals,
not another half page with you,
no erratum slip,
no fingerprints
that might be yours
on my door handles.