How to Stare into Space

From a first date using fifty pence to buy her ham
and tomato sandwich wrapped in polythene
you then split by the canal, watching the starlings
wheel over the railings, and the green hands
of deadfall, twigs, up to the lip, float
down stream as she gracefully talked the difference
out of love and back to being friends.
And later, she became friends with you
a phone call to say she was in town, the cuffs
not dry on your shirt from laundry day, off
to meet her on the bald wooden chairs
eating sweet mayonnaise and black blistered
jacket potatoes, where Rod was out,
out of the picture, Have you ever wondered,
you say into space, what Prince does
on his days off? Goes to the park and rescues
fallen birds for the RSPCA, the only human
who might not smell human to birds.
The answer does not matter.
You are friends now, she reaches across
and pinches your index finger awkwardly.
You are busy thinking Prince probably
hangs out with Rod, hair pushed into a shock
on the roller coaster photo print out
while playing solitaire,
kicking chestnut leaves into the air,
sharing loaded glances over a cigarette machine at Bingo.
Rod’s terrible bongo player, but she has good taste
perhaps Prince and Rod are lovers,

How to Stare into Space

perhaps it’s time they went on a date,
to gather the fallen starlings,
to do something that smells meaningful.