Love Object


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!

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