Civil Marriage
In magnified translation,
of the Henry Moore: the library
swoons on an ottoman.
A cornflower confection of lace and buttons
corset down to the swoop of skirt;
which in a moment of private abandon
has revealed her dreadfully thin ankle
and a clumsily squareness of shoe.
Across the road,
her fob-watched husband,
reads aloud the household accounts:
in stentorian Doric tone.
Dutifully frock-coated,
in a pinstripe of grime,
he stands square, and proud:
almost handsome, just sublime.
She rests upon her elbow,
to hear
(ignoring the wedding party
posing for pictures)
if she has money for novels
this year.
And, if among her coffee cups
the defaced copy of Goethe,
will receive repair.
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