Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, <br />As epitaph: <br />He chucked up everything <br />And just cleared off, <br />And always the voice will sound <br />Certain you approve <br />This audacious, purifying, <br />Elemental move. <br /> <br />And they are right, I think. <br />We all hate home <br />And having to be there: <br />I detest my room, <br />It's specially-chosen junk, <br />The good books, the good bed, <br />And my life, in perfect order: <br />So to hear it said <br /> <br />He walked out on the whole crowd <br />Leaves me flushed and stirred, <br />Like Then she undid her dress <br />Or Take that you bastard; <br />Surely I can, if he did? <br />And that helps me to stay <br />Sober and industrious. <br />But I'd go today, <br /> <br />Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads, <br />Crouch in the fo'c'sle <br />Stubbly with goodness, if <br />It weren't so artificial, <br />Such a deliberate step backwards <br />To create an object: <br />Books; china; a life <br />Reprehensibly perfect.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-of-departures/
