tape recordings of the day
we took a bus to monterey, won’t even play
whatever you say
and all my savings have been spent
on telephone calls and weekly rent
now heaven sent
the window frame has jammed again
probably in consequence, of the rain
or so they claim
the back verandah is, i’m told
hidden somewhere under mould and marigolds
out on parole
and even with Columbus on
no ship could sail upon
this green linoleum
a sea of crumbs
the cupboard doors we leant upon
the masonite is lifting from
a time ago, so long
could do no wrong
all the letters that i wrote
will turn up later in the pocket of my coat
the next time it snows
and the horses in the yard
john paul sartre and simone de beauvoir
are taking it hard
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