Flying Over Iceland

over Reykjavik, the “smokey bay”

where W.H. Auden went

to discover the background

of all our songs,

where I myself was received

by the Mayor and the President

(600 miles an hour

30,000 feet

599 miles an hour

my old street number on Belmont Ave)

where I, a second-rater

by any estimation,

was honoured by the noblest

and handsomest people of the West

served with lobster

and strong drink,

and I never cared about eyes

but the eyes of the waitress

were so alarmingly mauve

that I fell into a trance

and ate the forbidden shellfish