9 / 11
They sit in a room that is half soaked in gin
How did they get here; how did it begin?
She’s stretched out in front of him, feet on the floor
Cigarettes in their hands, now someone’s closed the door.
Looking at postcards from her on the wall
While people lean drunkenly out in the hall
Quick, to the bar! We mustn’t be long.
Or they’ll get ideas, some of which won’t be wrong.
What if he notices? What if he hears?
Or worse – nothing happens – is that what she fears?
Her hair smells like sugar, and maple, and sweet
It surely won’t seem all that strange if they meet.
Pages from magazines sent via air,
And stories of monkeys in hats in the square.
You should have seen it, you should have been there
But you wouldn’t love it and you wouldn’t care.
The day I first met you, you cut off your hair.
And now it means nothing, it doesn’t, I swear…
I knew at the time that it wasn’t for me
But how can we give up what we can’t yet see?