Maybe if she hadn’t given me that book
Or if I hadn’t read my first gay novel
Either way it was too late, we were on
The island; we would continue our search
I have spoken before of red telephone boxes
With stolen conversations - remember Calvino
& of course, when she won the competition
I was doubtless going to be going there with her
The boy will be given the gift, he almost already has
Though she may not, be given to know of the present
Or of the tracks that he finds, on the cities outskirts
Which may be transplanted, without tying him down
My clothes feel soft again, though I’m not in stripes
My hair is flattered, by the perm, turning to silver
I have left, moved away from the less of conversation
To become a spy; an intermittent traveller, a writer
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
