Poet for the night
So you want a poet for the night,
forget yourself,
while you listen to his stories
of love and death and waiting -
and what was your name again?
Lies are so easily remembered.
You are a poem I wrote long ago,
for someone passing in the street.
Are you that poem?
I remember poems.
What was your name again?
Yes, I think I remember now:
April legs, as long as longing;
eyes forever looking out of windows,
onto streets where no-one goes.
Forget about these non-existing crowds:
you’ve got yourself a poet for the night -
what would you like him to do?