Perhaps you have dreams of a flat in Hampstead,
of a box at the Opera each weekend,
of buying candelabras and dinner parties you’d attend.

I have, for my sins, been a denizen of a West Heath pad,
seen any number of different Mimis  fall dead,
and eaten by candle-light something light on a something green bed.

Perhaps all dreams are what someone who wants you has had
and, not being able to have you, has had what you wanted instead.