Gone Cold
By two o’clock the body-thing’s gone cold;
Chilled stillness of the morning’s wordwork.
Looking out for real live people:
Lover/café/chat–the buzz of game-for-anything eyes.
Mind you the lover’s long since disappeared down the rain soaked street
Only a few ghostly reflections
Smudges on corners
The singsong tone of her laughter
Hanging in the frail air, snagged on bare winter branches.
For a moment I could have sworn she was wearing yellow
But that can’t be right. By the way do ghosts get things mixed-up?
Forget the part they’re supposed to be playing?
Particles, it occurs to me, lead a charmed existence
Details just so, bright and bushy tailed immortals
Highly structured, wild and free
And as formless as the smoke rising
From that Chinese woman’s cigarette. She reminds me
I could fall in love at the drop of a hat; machinery’s functioning well enough
Though I can’t find that vital je ne sais quoi–
Robbed blind, I shouldn’t wonder, something slipped into my drink.
Alan Kirby
November 2006