Eating Out

Eating Out

Eating Out

               Gentle, inaffluent,
susceptible to portions of pity though
a mild cynicism increased
as he left high school and
The High School Student’s Union
(articulates in berets with
little yellow stars: ‘Semantics, man . . .’
‘Aww that’s a cop-out, man . . .);
susceptible to cool, correct sympathy
(slight commitment)
any girl concerned to teach him
wines, driving, boredom.

               And Nicol, she was joining NIDA yet
they kept company for a few weeks
of a dry summer (shifts and
blouses flapping over the line).
What’s she like to live with?
Ahh that’s romance, attainable
as clap. All construction:
a partner in sorrow would be
wonderful: poor pet, poor pet. (Such
prey we are to prey!)

              Windows of dwarfs, in Xmas
the city was presentiments, expenditure,
recalling for him an earlier attempt
(each day begins a year)
‘How often should I see you?’
and the mother with hands smeared
in drycleaning fluid. Nice
nice nice nice. He shivered
for their kingdom of constraint,
but no quibbles, virginity is
amazing, beautiful as the back
of Sarah’s waist,
how neat it was!

            ‘See a show?’
                                     ‘You’re hosting!’
                                                                   Then
lets.
        Mrs Salmons (was it Salmons?) suspected
at least casinos: ‘Where will tea
be?’ hinting at liquor ‘Eh?’
             Why it’s toast, Ma’m, it’s an evangelical
coffee house, Ma’m. Shook hands.
             Coming back her father beaming Young Ones!
and Sarah asked ‘Excuse me?’
left for sleep. That body:
small, neat, redoubtable, it
seemed unfair; but quit the thought.
We were a debacle!

             This year, Nicol. On weekends,
before her course,
they trotted round the palm tree parks,
up to rotundas, her home at hand
through lime-white colonnades, there,
a lot for him:
table manners, the correct liquor. Some
minor heiress in a cheesecloth blouse
sustaining his dictum:
‘My word, Marxism is exotic!’

             For last year (as a friend referred)
Les Chinois stoic in Bakeries, their cache
of humorless invective; yet oh the design!

             Living is divergence, plus
‘how swell’. A trainee life-assessor and
Sarah would be very very happy. Not hers
some fuming dialectician
(their High School Student’s Union pronouncing
such ministry ‘Lethal as a nail gun’).
Some years further
here’s he, sitting in a bandstand,
the NIDA trainee saying ‘Sometimes
I can’t conceive of letting a man near,
you understand?’
                               Romance is, you know,
danger; though a few nights
before her parents drove Nicki
over to the flight she took him
eating. (‘Daddy’s a solicitor
with conscience.’) Workingmen mean
a lot and the waiter asked him him
regards wine, ‘Sir?’

              Damn brief, ought to have been
forgettable (I’m forgettable too) kissing
this forthcoming actress, oh poised for
an unsorrowing wave off the tarmac:
the outsized sunglasses, the smart,
pudding-basin bum, cheesecloth.

               A lift? Please.
On his prize bush, aphis. Nicol’s father
stated aphis and how to end it
(talking of steps to Mr. Potter, gardener).
Yes, a lift . . . with music to town
and you in my arms . . . easy, adult, radio
smarmed away its ‘Happy day happy day.’