NEW JERSEY
In opulence, a dog pissing with fear
On her devoted owner’s perfumed hand
Adjusts their sights – perhaps best to steer clear
Of those eye-perfect canapes which stand
Out in the country club’s clean sun for hours.
The fares are paid, and still, an emptiness
Persists - admire, don’t touch or smell the flowers,
Accept, but don’t embrace or trust largesse.
The sprinklers hiss with menace through the strain-
Soaked conversations, anecdotes misheard
stay uncorrected. Faux pas unexplained,
the action all at once meets the absurd.
The choice is stark, at last, should this guest start
To sing a song he knows not … or depart?
GRAVESEND
It’s weird, once we’d walked twenty-seven miles
To Gravesend, I was in a trendy priest’s
Well-ordered front room, sifting through his piles
Of records, bold and busy, or at least
Not far away, defending Marvin Gaye’s
What’s Going On from stacks of unjust scorn
And (save the babies) my paean of praise,
I dare say, struck me to this vicarage reborn.
It’s weird, though, cos what happened next was
We watched Match of the Day, and that guy’d died,
A helicopter crash. And just because …
Because … because … I don’t … because … I cried …
Right there … with Chelsea fans … the vicar Chris …
And soul-sad pilgrims … and, just this … just this.
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