It.

IT
(following a poem by Peter Kocan)

   We used to talk about It quite a lot:
   Men often do, gathered round a bar,
   It's always been a fascinating topic,
   That's provided entertainment from afar.

   We wondered what It would be like to meet,
   Sometimes regretting, somewhere deep inside
   That we were born too late, too far away.
   We wouldn't meet It, even if we tried.

   It had become quite discriminating lately
   About who It would honour with a meeting.
   It wasn't always so. Our fathers, for example,
   Obtained no great distinction from Its greeting.

   We thought that we might meet It years ago,
   But the formalities were not completed.
   The footman took our cards and then
   Prior to the introductions, It retreated.

   I thought of weeding out my books about It,
   Thinking Its influence might be on the wane,
   When my son called me to the television
   And we saw It had become a star again.

   So after a sabbatical It has, perhaps, returned
   Even if not in the expected way.
   And at our bars and dinner parties It
   now tends to dominate the things we say.

   It may be waiting in the street outside,
   We wonder if It's going to pay a call,
   Feeling perverse relief, and an odd pride--Are
   we really going to meet It after all?