Cataract Operation

The sun comes like a head

through last night's turtleneck.

A pigeon in the yard turns tail

and offers me a card. Any card.

From pillar to post, a pantomime

of damp, forgotten washing

on the washing line.

So, in the breeze:

the olé of a crimson towel.

the cancan of a ra ra skirt,

the monkey business of a shirt

pegged only by its sleeve,

the cheerio

of a handkerchief.

I drop the blind

but not before a company

of half a dozen hens

struts through the gate,

looks round the courtyard

for a contact lens.