Cambridge Arms

The couple across from me force small talk, the mother-in-law
Telling her refashioned son to put his phone away. “I dread to think
If they had them things on our wedding day!”
That takes me back; I am now lost:
I take myself home to lie down
For four days with words going past instead of memories. I am so adaptive:
I miss work and shopping when this comes; or
I go shopping but I am naked, delirious,
Talking in tongue and channelling ancient myth
Unawares, yet I wait for no one else to slip at least: I do not care
About the price of anything. But as they carry me
Away the deputy gets jealous
Of my rhymes—that I don’t do Boxing Day. I am sick in the cell;
I am still on my Odyssey. I am feeling guilty
Again here as Waitrose does not mix
With nudity and I couldn’t take her son along: he is lost forever.
I am sure the deputy is found: I felt his katabasis
Call while he minded my head and I passed it to him
For a short time; as I myself
Have forgotten everything again without needing to leave the pub, remaining
Vaguely unconcerned with clothing myself
In those around me. Though I am a touch tired.