Yesterday was a good day.
We bought shoes and you knew the price,
and we laughed at the man in the café who smashed a plate.
Today you remember the man, but the shoes have slipped from your grasp
to lie discarded with bits of your life,
and fragments of last week.

You are leaving piece by piece,
for a comfy world of platitude and repetition.
Sabotaging all attempts to hold you back,
you are content and unafraid; while I turn to ice,
ready to score and crack with the effort of normality.

And when this is finished
I hope these things will slide as easily from me,
leaving instead that day in the fifties when we walked,
heads thrown back, sunspots dancing,
searching for skylarks.