Imperfectly Perfect

All the winds blow wet
in the grey town of Bath.
Sodden, I step out into the fray,
cold and forgotten,
clinging to a phantom,

a frail frame
in a famous blue fur coat,
a cut-throat voice
behind crooked smile
crudely whittled by some
half-drunk creator-god,
a bent Bacchian beauty,
a salty kiss stood
in straw hairdo,

a troglodyte’s dream,
Irish, illiterate,
inappropriately alive and
everywhere I turn.

Imperfectly perfect,
I wouldn’t change a thing
for all the gold on Africa’s shore.