The Personals
I'll choose two people from this page--
one to want and one to be
all made up from those words, an age
and status, how to look and see
all unlike the who
I must always be being;
an I to fit a You--
send myself like a message:
cerebral but funny, leftish but skiing.
So many characters
in search of a plot,
so many futures waiting to happen
which to me will not--
cultured and wild, a Venus against furs:
such futures, on this page, open
where mine is married, mortgaged, shut--
to know who to want, and what for,
searching for Love, or nearest offer,
pose myself like a question
and watch the blond muscular answer--
tall and thirty, open to suggestion--
stroll towards my table
thinking eco-anxious, sinuous dancer
thinking sporty, busty, fun,
feeling a wish grow palpable,
doing all I've never done
and seeing the ghost of the possible
who slipped out of sight
where facing windows treble the light
and his figure that broke
and flickered - perfect match,
a partner bespoke:
nervous, unstable, bright
but lost by the bridge, the building-site,
park railings or subway, who glimpses catch
fitful as a shadow on a watch
but might be conjured by this spell:
my age and status, how I look and see--
but no.
I'll make these types my proxies,
make them meet like parts of me
where column inches lengthen and spill
knowing the pleasure of both sexes--
shrunk to a few words, then born anew
and stuffed through millions of letter boxes.
Ian Gregson
