In the high school, for a year,
I slept with the mother of my best friend.
He half-knew it, I suppose,
But never stoop to letting it out,
Not even to my girlfriend.
Every Friday, after a quick one, he moved on
To pick up a bird, needing not to ask
If he could use my place. We understood
Friendship much in the same way.
It all begun at his birthday do.
When the last guests wobbled home
I stayed to help with the dishes
And what was left in the bottles. He was
Too drunk to drive, I lived too far to walk.
We would meet in the same place, outside the city limits.
I often though she fancies being caught; it’d be so easy
To truck us down, had anybody been bothered.
The history of the Italian theatre, minute
Yet vital differences in the art of tea in China and Japan,
The slow, intriguing development of volcano islands
Somewhere in the Pacific – she knew it all. Then, as if tired
Of herself, she would thrust the highway of her legs
Into the void that make-believed a canopy over our time.
The last time her hair was dishevelled in a different way.
I turned the radio in my car on and listed to the clutter in the boot
Laugh all the way.