Dinner At Eight

In a well-lit room at the gallery
there was a sculpture; a beautiful youth
come all the way from ancient Greece,
but I'd missed lunch, and a pushy crowd
obscured its wrought perfection.

Down the street a café offered
cakes, cold drink, a comfortable stool
and crisp salad sandwiches.
I thought of you
alert at the concert hall,

remembered I was late, that
after a lengthy concert
we were due for dinner at eight,
thought how people consume all sorts of art,
voracious as wolves at meat, how others

imperturbably ignore it, thought that
just for a solitary month or two
I'd like to forget meaning in my life,
live in a well-provided-for place
without art, without discomfort.