Shoulder To Lean On

Joe got a bus home
He stopped short of the village
Walked through the woods
Along the riverbank
He paused at the church, sat in the graveyard

What the hell had he done
He heard the words he had spoken
Ringing around his head
It was dark when he sat down
At home, on the leather settee

Desiree was oblivious
To the goings on at the university
Her father had suggested a few days away
Here she was on the south coast...

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Committed

Well we will need a committee
Said the Dean
With a wry smile
No, no, no screamed Joe

Get Desiree
Get the papers
Get the radio
Get the kids

Tell ‘em it’s going to change
That they have made things change already
And that they, they alone
Can make more of a change

Celebrate Desiree’s work
Tell ‘em that’s what she wants
That is what we want
That is what you want...

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Match Met

Tom Smithson was corrupted
By his life of organised storage
It was no surprise that in Desiree’s words
He saw so much of his own mis-spent youth

He had not always been tidy
In fact he had missed
The end of his own education through
The mistake of misapplication

Tom’s sympathy then, for Desiree
Was not simply brought on by parental blindness
He took that thought with him
As he set off to meet the Dean and Joe

Tom, I am in a very difficult position

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Emergence

Scraps
The lines we skipped
At the start of Desiree’s poem
These then are now Joe’s words

Desiree suspects
No, she knows
That Joe could easily
Reconstruct the whole poem

And he could publish it in her name
She would little be able to dispute it
After all, certain snippets
Were already in the public domain

And to publish at a later date
Could only be construed as a wilful act
A deliberate act against her father...

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Shopkeepers

Joe’s village corner shop now rents videos
Aswan also sells six-pack lagers
And bottles of Bacardi Breezer

The freezers are full of TV dinners
In the corner by the till is confectionery
At the side of the cigs there’s a lottery machine

Gone are the fresh vegetables
The wallpaper paste
The newspaper delivery boys

No longer the bookie's runner
Nor the post office counter...

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