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