We drove past it every Thursday;
blank, bleach white walls.
Clean, block rectangular.
There was a garage
and sometimes a black car
in the driveway.
It stood out crowded by cluttered
town houses smothered in ivy,
with long grass, red brick or pebble-dashed.
Glass on the street and supermarket
bags on the path, traffic,
conventionality, routine, and teletext.
But his house stood out.
The closest vision of showbiz style
I could see with all I knew being
he grew up near here,
like me, and that must be it,
the very house where
he would live if still in this city.
Creating a myth to myself
that he was allusive but he was inside.
I’d wind down the car window
listening out for the sound of
his songs in the air,
or watch to see if anybody
opened the door, lights of cameras
in the seconds we pass the junction.
Of course, never saw him
on the Thursdays our car passed by
but knew he was very busy.
