In the shop- window. Passers-by stared in.
I watched from across the road. I was frantic
when gorgeous golden ones went in.
Would they want to take a closer look?
Would they want him wrapped?
I paced all day, then all night, under the street-light.
I smoked fifteen cigarettes. I ground each
stub into dust, all except the fifteenth which
I threw over my shoulder for luck. Luck
would have it , though, oh, luck and its way.
Here was the love-object, unsold and out late;
flashing through his skin like neon, his sell-
by date. Cigarette number sixteen-could wait!