Xanadu

 Xanadu

 

And now, Dobson opens his eyes to see,

somebody speaking, somebody reaching,

but lost in a language that used to serve them,

and they call it Xanadu.

 

Roll over Beethoven – tell Tchaikovsky the news.

 

You and I, says she, share no friends.

and sits back, arms crossed, as if his life depends

on the next secret sign he sends.

 

And he needs a shot of rhythm and blues.

 

Right there, in the arm, swab the skin,

stick that needle right in,

like The Doctor did when she opened her arms

and let him sin.

 

Sees Aunt Sally coming, so he ducks back in the alley.

 

Distracted for a second, puts his paper down,

rubs at stubble on his cheek with a scowl,

picks up his lemon and lime; swallows it down.

 

The love, the echoes of long ago.

 

Friends? Well, now. Dobson considers this gravely,

feeling the pull of a gravity of sorts, shivers bravely

and concludes, with a certainty that’s deft,

Well, that’s because I haven’t any left.

 

She rolled over Beethoven and gave Tchaikovsky back.

 

Well, that says it all, says she, in triumph.

You could carve that look in alabaster, put it on a plinth,

if you were into that sort of thing.

 

But he’s got to make that southbound train tonight.

 

Later, he’s in the passenger seat,

the car idles, the gear’s in neutral and so is he,

looks up, spots a lurching ass by the trees,

pushing hard on a trolley.

 

Shake, shake, shake; shake your booty.

 

Look at the size of that, he grins,

but she’s already aiming her frowning fingers at him,

Mine’s twice that size, she stings

like a nest of wasps, lost, searching for something.

 

And all they have made is how time flew.

They call it Xanadu. Xanadu. Xanadu.