Honest? I chose at random.
Got the grades, managed to squeak
through the door.
After three days, I had a girl.
Well, I say had. She weren’t convinced
but I’d got time.
Her name: Rhiannon.
Yeah, like the Fleetwood Mac song.
She loved that one, typically.
I was more a Zeppelin fan.
This was pre-punk, pre-White Riot,
pre-kids, house, diagnosis.
Runny eggs at the caff for brekky,
hungover Saturdays after a Seagulls defeat
at the Goldstone.
I smoked, quit, smoked again.
She got a peace sign stabbed
on her right shoulder-blade.
Some point later, I’m in a white room,
white man. Oesophageal.
I got the one I can’t pronounce.
I’m pinged out of the reverie
by two girls, one humming Waterloo.
Unmistakable.
I can give or take it, you know.
Like I said, I was into Led Zep.
ABBA’s more an acquired taste.
Still, I find myself humming it too
when the wife returns,
fish in batter like a ***** of gold.
Written: 2018/19.
Explanation: A poem that was part of my MFA Creative Writing manuscript, in which I wrote poems about cities that have staged the Eurovision Song Contest, or taken the name of a song and written my own piece inspired by the title. I have received a mark for this body of work now, so am sharing the poems here.
