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Sometimes you think about Atlas and you cry Poor thing A lot of the time you can’t get over it A fossil of a man, an allegory, you know, but the simplicity of the image remains – heaven has a burden to it And how obvious is that? How ruinous You tell Jun this over a half-spilt Guinness and he laughs, which has always seemed to you like another way of crying He says okay, we tread all over people What can you do about it? You buy him another drink   You’ve been at the club a year by this point What of it? Not much You watch him make martinis and mimosas and margaritas – 2 for 1 on a Thursday special treat for the lady – hear the softness of his fingers on glass and metal shakers, spot the solidity of his tongue, damp, deft, as it tastes the mixtures Nod if yes Shake if no And you see these as secrets You’ve decided they are secrets of him, which only you know   He waves at you every night as you enter and you wave back all innocent but observing the veins in his arms and neck You travel a long way to get there, alone on the tube, below the bright city, waiting for that wave and all the anonymity you feel to end You make notes on your phone about him such as SEEMED SAD LOOKING AT A BOWL OF OLIVES? You worry about him incessantly You do your make-up on the train and from your headphones come the songs you know you’ll be requested – obviously Amy, Adele, on and off Alicia You sing on what Bobby calls Jazz Evenings! But even with instruction the punters only want pop’s soft melodies You have become a tribute to other women and you know it – in your compact mirror you see increasingly little   During the days you ponder the proximity of other people; you are told London is filled with them but you’ve never quite believed it During the nights you make a study of the dark,