Some Days Can Turn Out Fine
Some days can turn out fine in the last ten minutes.
The morning wasted, dodging the weather.
Afternoon set aside for mending the car
and up pops this person from Prufrock.
All hell let loose, the tea is almost burnt
then, just when you’re nearly reading Dostoyevsky
suddenly a poem or a loving phone-call.
Some days can turn out fine in the last ten minutes.
I write this at a quarter past eleven,
third of November, 1993.
If you’re reading this, love,
you’re years too late to phone.
Page(s) 54
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