The Night Library
.
Richard Ford sits in the window seat,
blowing smoke out of the fifth floor
window, flicking ash on passers-by;
while Raymond Carver has said all
he is going to say and fallen asleep
on the couch.
In the kitchen, half in the bag,
Bukowski has been waging war
with a pear-shaped Richard Yates
and after relighting his cigar on the
hot rings of the electric stove, is now
puffing demonstrably to celebrate.
However, gin wins the battle between
poetry and prose when Dorothy Parker
wanders in looking for the tonic and
tells them Robert Frost is locked in the
bathroom and refuses to come out.
(Naturally, they both suspect she has the key)
Meanwhile, on the bedside table,
a Swede sits, gathering dust - patiently
waiting to be translated into words
I can pronounce; his lost cause joined
by William Boyd, who staggers in
waving a gun in the air - demanding
another chance -and I, unable to
decide who and what to read, turn
off the curious lamp and wish them
all a goodnight.
