This life’s not been all wine, fags and whiskey
you know. There were women
somewhere in the maelstrom.
After the lying in, a bacon roll
and cup of tea to go.
I don’t look at the pictures now,
especially in black and white.
Wide-eyed youth, clutching someone else’s joint
as if it were a microphone.
Blethering, open-mouthed.
A long time since, but even so
there’s stuff I ought to leave with you.
Let’s unlock this box together.
Root through secret keepsakes,
examine what we find inside.
Exhibit A: the Zhivago shirt
in green and purple pattern, fit
for any psychedelic comeback.
In a world of his own
this peacock preens and struts,
and moulds a scratched vinyl –
Surfer Girl – melting, into an ash tray.
Sleeve restyled as with-it pin-up.
Borrowed New Left Reviews litter the floor –
revisions unreturned.
In my drawer, there’s a dental cast
which restores toothless bite.
Heart-shaped letters too: a ribboned bundle
I swore I’d burn but never did.
Call it my insurance.
xii. 2021
