Bring back the goggles and the gloves.
I will not ignite the elderly as they bring to me their harmless spectres,
Their long-lost dead,
But I make no promises about disappearing in the night
Into their tangled wings.
I was waiting at the robot house when the cream seller arrived.
She said "Acetylene gas, for me, is a big risk"
And I heard them droning and drooling strong coffee into their woollen beards
As I climbed up, room by room,
Towards the dinner party,
Finding it harder and harder to drag my wheelchair
Over sofas and window-ledges