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slightly on the mat I would have seen
if I hadn't been looking for you inside
my head: the will to imagine a life
in memories that belong to someone
else. "I had a liver. I don't think I'll risk
another," sings Nico. "Lover," that is,
but I'll leave the slip, to remind me
of those places where I need to tread
carefully. Did you know that she hated
that record? On the cover her eyes
shine white, lit by a source within
the space beyond the frame. "Memory."
The grass is wet under the sunny gray
clouds and the gravel on the circular
drive sounds like the teeth of an audience
coming down on their crisps. It's a Ford
Cortina, chestnut brown with beige seats.
The woman opening the driver's door
has a red handbag. Except that she's not
the driver, I realize, correcting for her
location. She looks a lot like Nico
come to think of it, as she strides
up the marble steps. The driver is nowhere
in sight. Maybe it's me, I think, as she
waits for the bell to be answered to
John Cale's insistent strings. You look
nothing like Nico, my love. But I did
have a Ford Cortina once, when I was
three. I couldn't stand the feeling
when my dry fingers would touch the
metal. I kept bringing them to my
mouth, but the relief only lasted
for a few seconds. "She wants another
scene," she sings, "She wants to be
a human being." I swear, girl. The
highway may be thick with lorries,
but once we hit the Chertsey Road
we might as well be in Basingstoke
already. I hope you'll forgive me.
Tags: everyday, music, poetry
Current Location: 85704
Muse: Take a wild guess.
