I forsake dusty springfield
to follow you out of the theatre.
You are friendly but not affectionate.
I haven’t seen you for ages.
You now have a son.
I overhear you telling a stranger
that he is called Menelaus
after the son of my mistress.
I follow you through vast antique shops
where I consider buying a throne.
Instead I go out into the busy road
and under a flyover.
You are nowhere in sight.
The searchlight in the citycentre
is still fingering the sky
though it is now well after midday.
Realizing that I will never see you again
and overwhelmed with whatmighthavebeenness
I give myself up
at the nearest marriage bureau.