Someone has my Philip Larkin postcard, I
Never having cleared out my desk
after all of the unpleasantness,
but doubtless they deserve it more,
the headset golem of the future,
all good skin, yoga-tones
and remembering to log back in,
even after a lengthy lunch.
I can almost see them reaching for it,
distracted and in need of scrap paper
while on hold to Adrian in Finance
but instead surprised by copperplate
grumbling of Lapland fjords, Kaiser Bill,
and why I should really think again.
Then, overleaf, old Phil himself,
lurking in the bookshelves
with his creased brow, dark shadows
and Dr. Faustus look, a horn-rimmed
invitation to problematic delights,
a crooked half-smile which says
Yes, I know itís all quite dreadful,
but if we really have to be here
have you seen the consolations?
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Laurence Morris would
be pleased to hear them.