| In restaurants we argue |
| over which of us will pay for your funeral |
| |
| though the real question is |
| whether or not I will make you immortal. |
| |
| At the moment only I 5 |
| can do it and so |
| |
| I raise the magic fork |
| over the plate of beef fried rice |
| |
| and plunge it into your heart. |
| There is a faint pop, a sizzle 10 |
| |
| and through your own split head |
| you rise up glowing; |
| |
| the ceiling opens |
| a voice sings Love Is A Many |
| |
| Splendoured Thing 15 |
| you hang suspended above the city |
| |
| in blue tights and a red cape, |
| your eyes flashing in unison. |
| |
| The other diners regard you |
| some with awe, some only with bordom: 20 |
| |
| they cannot decide if you are a new weapon |
| or only a new advertisement. |
| |
| As for me, I continue eating; |
| I liked you better the way you were, |
| but you were always ambitious. 25 |
