Life in Stockwell – January 1983

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon

a quiet time devoid of gratitude.

I sit inside this huge hippopotamus of a house

listening out for the clairvoyant

making love upstairs.

The sun goes down slowly

pregnant with fire

and I’m lonely.

I’ll show you how much fear

one can carry

and I’ll look for someone

capable of sorting things out:

a King of situations,

a Queen of good moods.

In Westminster Abbey there will be a painter

who’ll do my portrait.

It will be right for the National Gallery

but only after six, when it’s closed.

This will happen on Tuesday

because on other days I will be busy elsewhere.

When I’m going out on business

and I’m cheerful enough

I remember to pull the door behind me.

I do this with determination and ambition.

Outside the grey sky

is always as small as a geometrical dot

and it smells good.

Maybe my portrait will supplant me,

live in my place

like a moneyed artist,

a grand lady

or, (you may laugh if you can)

a grinning clown.