Every afternoon now, we hear the clock
ticking down through next door’s window.
We’ve pulled the sofa outside, our chairs
and cups. Bring on the books, we shout;
John steps out with Beckett on his head.
We are speaking other people’s words,
practising our bows. We are cramming
three years into our skulls, already
brimming with ourselves. One of Paul’s
shoes is in the corner. He’s lost the other;
it doesn’t matter. We’ve been sunning
ourselves all May, all June. Barely clean,
completely looking, no one wearing shades.