Yarmouth

We ate reality sandwiches in Yarmouth last night,
Wizened mushrooms between slices
Of Pepperidge Farm raisin bread,
Washed down with Perrier.

All night long,
Somewhere ran the edge,
Somewhere the escalator rising,
Somewhere the slow steady rumble of the vicinity.

But no turn of the circuit took us there.
It came and went,
Leaving only this...
This taste of aftermath and anticipation.

They didn't work.
They must have sat there too long,
There in the bottom drawer,
With the used computer printouts.