i have gone through steps one to five,
met a man who sells paper on the footpath,
drunk myself silly by abandoning the method,
wept by the bridge because it got too cold,
& stood on your doorstep wondering
whether to ring the bell

but it doesn't really matter
because i'm selfish & it makes things clear,
why the cellophane around flowers
should have held more meaning.

if i toss you over my head
to spend my hours & my days
then i would be better off
walking to the end of the street
((& back perhaps?))

artistry doesn't make a masterpiece,
not on nights wasted with
a solemn glass of drink.