Are those the sort of glasses that
Change from light to dark,
Depending on the light and the dark?
And if they are, I need to ask,
How can you read the Metro through glass
The colour of weak coffee? Of thin gravy?
Sepia eyes screwed tight,
Up all night with baby, maybe?
Grab squared paper and a compass to
Sketch a trigonometric face,
All angles, sharp points and
Unremarkable features. What does it prove
When a nose rises like Mount Olympus
Above cheeks so smooth?
A boyish tuft of hair,
Cotton wool clogged with glue,
Stoically styled to stifle the fear
That one day Blue Peter might appear,
Construct a face of corrugated cardboard,
Papier-mâché and little sponge bits for a beard,
Then size him up and single him out with
A derisive aside, just as he feared:
‘Look, there goes one that we made earlier.’