I Cannot Stand Tears

 

After Charles Bukowski


The first at the station:
her Oyster broken, a bosomy
attendant swiped her through,
bloom of sorrow blossoming
just below her fringe.

The second on a Friday,
third week of March,
Piccadilly Circus, near the Windmill,
where they'd opened a new
hole in the world, I saw
her skirt the building blindly,
tissue twisted in her hand,
face a waterfall of frustration.

Lastly in SW1, St Patrick's Day,
the blond browbeaten moll
of some atypical drunken
brute, enfeebled by drink
and failing affection, reason
and love as foreign as France.

And I cannot stand tears,
so I hasten to the Tube,
furling my umbrella as I go.

The bastards had ruined
my landscape.