Here is the lady whose teeth are always lost.
They’re wheeling her in through the door in a scarf and nightie.
Did they take her outside in April dressed like that?
But she seems joyous: she’s seen real flowers this morning;
Not the crêpe-made sort set down amid cotton-wool sheep
And a splash of cobalt blue.
When I get older, losing my hair… she sings, in passing,
And I’m catching that evil glimmer in her eye.
Many years from now… I hear someone-like-me reply.
The mouth folds in for a smile, a purse lacking coins.
Will you still be sending me a valentine…
Outside I don’t do singing; I do in here, it seems.
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
I don’t dance either: she’ll have me doing the soft-shoe-shuffle next
And I really don’t want to fit into this land of dreams.