Centre Point
And when we came out it was so much cooler,
even with the humidity. The streets
were as quiet as after a snowfall, though
my feet felt swollen, and my sandals
thrillingly high and tight.
It was late.
Suddenly you held out a finger: See,
the tower of Centre Point! the blue
letters, one missing as it must, the way it glows
in the fog, it looks just like a movie!
I could live in this street, you said,
bringing your line of vision down
to the crooked little place we were, in fact,
in – the ramshackle houses, their stratospheric value
notwithstanding except in that you can’t –
can’t live there, that is.
The conversation
oh was about dreams,
about the roof terraces of your imagination,
and then I turned back on the vista that pursued us
down the alleyway,
the CENTRE POIN .
It looked
black-&-white like a photograph,
you agreed. It really could have been noir. I turned
and saw ahead of us two orange flowers
leaning away from each other on a ledge in the dark.
Then we were at your car.
