The future . . . always imminent

A few years ago
I came across
Edmund Davie
a poet 
sitting along the Thames with 
a small table
a sheaf of paper
an ancient typewriter.
On the spot, 
I could choose a theme
he would tap tap tap a poem
for me.

I didn’t do it.

And suffered 
a twinge of regret
every time I was in the area.

Yesterday! 
There he sat!
But it was cold.
 
“It only takes minutes.”
“The Future” then.
On the South Bank - 
In front of the Tate Modern, 
Something inserted and removed itself 
from my unknown wish list.

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