We snuggled ugly, the saucy biscuit and I,
under the lampposts of Noddle Island in August.
We fumbled through Hitchhiker’s, played Depeche Mode,
until September deep-sixed our adventures.
We lived, we did. We wrestled, wrote poems, dozed,
feckless and dopey amid exotic triple-deckers,
subversive sophomores in a sensual summer,
daffodils in the boxing ring, monks at the circus.
Musty sunporches! Mope-rock symphonies!
Falsetto sobs, androgynous archdukes!
Sparkle in the Rain. Low-life. Hatful of Hollow.
Aspirations wrecked in a premature equinox.
My nightingale, my siren, why did you take flight?
When will we drop books, bundle up and nudge?
You've run off with my reason, split with my wits,
jaybird of the fire-plugs, buxom bundle of whim!