Who is the madder, me:-
running round Alexandra Park at one o’clock
of a Sunday morning,
skipping back and forth, half tempted by my invitation?
There’ll be no stroking of your fur tonight.
This is not the first time we have rendezvoused
at this place, and at this unearthly hour:
I have seen you before, dancing in the moonlight.
No, yours is not madness,
Your is joy,
Sheer, unfettered joy
At being alive, and being at one with your twilight world.
Yes, yours is joy,
Mine, alas, is a painful duty.
March 12, 1989
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