Clothed by Calvin Klein or Lacoste
Or Ralph Lauren or Henri Lloyd
You are out of place in this town where
To dress cheaply is itself part of the attraction
Where sharply to turn a hand too quickly
In a game of cards, is altogether unexpected
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Clothed by Calvin Klein or Lacoste
Or Ralph Lauren or Henri Lloyd
You are out of place in this town where
To dress cheaply is itself part of the attraction
Where sharply to turn a hand too quickly
In a game of cards, is altogether unexpected
We walk in familiar places
Our conversation races and chases
Then fades into our undiscovered dreams
My shoe laces, faced on the strike of the
Faraway clock are undone; the shine
Of flameless traces in the half light
Of midnight are over the cross unsung
We talk in particular cases of the real and
The imaginary, dazed by the liquor of love
My news of a Windrush calling, falling in line
The shadows steps, still and moving are abroad
In my country, here upon my Lincolnshire Wolds
The few truths that only they are able
To carry are held together; string on paper
Hope in the music of Liszt or Offenbach
We turn the last corner, under the
Soft sway of the evergreen willow
We walk along the unlit shingle path
Through the hinged wooden gate
And together we turn the cast metal
Key around, in our mortice security lock
I'm told you've played at Glastonbury
Was that before the entanglement
Of your Dorset pale faced folk fiddler
And your sub-continent Bhangra baby
The newly beautiful, truly deep eyed singer
The geography teacher
She tells me that she is tone deaf
And all night I see her fingers dance
On the curved back of her estranged lover
The poet who seeks his own fame
Who seeks to be
Outside of the establishment
But nevertheless
He wants to be thanked by them
For his dutiful service
The poet
Here in place of everyone
Who feels at odds with the world
Even at odds
Within their own world
Or looking at their own world
The poet
Then as the socialist worker
A justified struggle
By the poor
And the under-privileged
Yet what is the result
The unencumbered
Alternative
To be even more disenfranchised
Or instead to carry the load
With dignity
To become a pillar of society
Or to become
Entirely disillusioned
Or euphoric in joy
Is there here
Half a story
Or even any story at all
In any case
Would we, or could we
Understand how to reveal it
It's a funny old game, nine against eleven, and last year; two of our boys lost their lives on their journey home. So today, in their memory you play our signature song; Hi ho Sheffield Wednesday.
Your fifteen thousand three hundred and thirty five supporters and our four thousand one hundred and fifty four travelling fans; they raise together in a humane and emotional tribute.
No wonder then that the unshaved stubble stands (on end) to attention here again now, as I watch the raindrops fall on to my windscreen, with my eyes softly focussed, slowly and thoughtlessly towards the endless oncoming traffic.
Later. I ponder about the American guy, sat across from me in the coffee shop; he is here tonight to talk to our cohort; about all things literary and publishing; I wonder; will he mention this commentary on our beautiful game.