Men stood standing,
pacing, stood up men
dressed to the nineteens
and to the dozen,
sheets of raining
cats, dogs, stair rods
pelting their grim grey skins.
Are they waterproof
these unsinkable
but leaden ones?
Do they have
the backs of ducks?
Are they buoyant
these spindly boys in the Odeon ocean?
Their selves seem so thin,
their eyes and me’s so porous!
Will their bones self-inflate
or is this the unthinkable
male dissolution in the undrinkable
sickness of motion
pictures?
Picture this,
one boy’s girl shows up,
the Odeon organ swells,
Titanic goes down,
with the pair’s approval,
then there’s the wet kiss
and the removal
of her damp dress
and the rain is gone,
gone with the wind
back to the carpark
with all the rest.