My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with frosted figures cutting cake.
Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose sight of the windows in one’s life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Bliss indeed.