Writing the picture
Mistakes, like the ill-chosen furniture
Of the settled life, surround me now.
I am their willing prisoner.
They are my destiny, my vow:
The cigarette case, the divorce
The too-long lunch-time and the lunch-time horse.
But though it can’t be guaranteed,
There is a crest to every slope,
Forgiveness in another’s need
Of you, a need that gives you hope.
I’d take the bus to anywhere
To bring my grandson his old teddy-bear