The Present Writer

    answers questions vaguely， as if from distance，

    cares less for the dribs and drabs of his libido；

    gets more droll， lachrymose， implicit with age；

    has backed from the room， the turntable moving

    and a refill pad lying open at the page

    with 'swansong' and 'glockenspiel' written on it；

    makes collect calls from payphones， lost for words；

    has been known to sleep in the rear seat

    on the hard shoulder， the hazards ticking；

    is given to sudden floods of hope； still dreams

    of swimming pools， in sepia； can take or leave

    a life in shadow； will whoop out of the blue

    and surface on the landing， fork and spoon in hand，

    adrift of what the done thing was； doodles butterflies

    on the envelopes of unread letters； travels happiest

    towards daylight and fancies pigeons； gets a kick

    inhabiting the third person， as if talking across himself

    or forever clapping his own exits from the wings.