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RICK BROWN

HIGHGATE

I mightíve known; in any case,
Katrinaís nothing but a breath,
a few puddles in the universeís playground,
and my daughter ending her destiny
a less than pettiness
to all but us.
Iíd suck the ink back in my pen
sell my labour as a railway clerk,
touch my cap to the boss,
to turn that round.
Itís tight in here.
My coffinís like yours except
I didnít build it.
That tightrope youíre on
as the rock melts
and frail as houses everything solidís
nothing more than kettle vapour,
I walked it in my head
in a cafť in the cinquieme.
I was twenty-nine.
She was forty-three.
At three she could recite To be or not to be.
Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more.
What choice do you have ?
Gravityís a law you canít evade.
Your choices are inevitable
and your inevitabilities as chosen
as hers.