The Third Saturday. Morning.

(I am not in Guildford, no.)
Indifferent, yes. Inept, perhaps.
But Guildford's for the other folk;
Each pair, with steering wheels and maps,
Rehearsing vaguaries to smile
And drink? Maybe. And talk of hope,
Congratulations, all the while
Considering if married bliss
Is possible. Assuming (shame!)
The others will not come to this
Unnerving state of "what if?" nights
And mastless, almost shipwrecked days
Preparing bills of psuedo-rights,
Delaying promises for lust
And intimacy found elsewhere,
Away from any need to trust.
The Surrey sun will shine today.
I'm glad I'm not invited there:
I know that thunder's on its way.
(So I would not to Guildford go.)

2000-07-29