GOOD FOR THE SOUL

 

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