Behind Closed Eyelids

Hard to fathom what may be going on
when, as I believe, you're disengaged
and weighing up the opportunities --

such as they are -- to skedaddle with
the pretty gardener and his weedy Kinder;
or are involved in dulcet conversations

with Roger, who really shouldn't drink
those enormous bottles of cheap vino
then weave his way into the night.

It is a mystery to me why you sometimes
picnic in obscurity on fragile vol-au-vents
crowned by tiny prawn-like creatures

such as exist only in your imagination
while, at others, your evening parties delight:
the flower-beds aglow from the the barbecue

where rich fats sizzle and sputter
as air-kisses explode across the lawn,
and guests embrace, their eyes wide- ranging

for better prospects elsewhere in the garden.