LONDON BRIDGE
By default, with the dying, eyes out for
A spare chair, I am suddenly a clock-
Watcher supreme. No tick can be ignored
here, there’s a sigh of pain beyond each tock.
So this is open plan … I continue
With my bad blood, and places to arrive
and flee, events already born in you –
the endless memory of the half-alive.
We’re all in here together, I’ve a call
I might be late for. I am sorry, though.
I’m hoping to be back playing football
But I’ve been told I’ve got to take it slow.
I freely watch the minutes slide away.
I’ll win time back. I’m gone. I will not stay.
SALFORD
I shared a lift with Alan Shearer. He
Didn’t smile. I thought that good. He seemed in his
Unsmiling way a proper person free
From affectation, what they call showbiz.
I reached my estimation of big Al
In all of 14 seconds, yes, I warmed
To how he did not smile or call me pal
Or try to change what viewpoint I had formed.
Of course, that might be Shearer’s trick, but I
Doubt it. It doesn’t fit. He shoots, he scores,
There are no tricks. He smiles if pleased, didn’t try
To charm before the lift opened its doors.
And I, in turn, didn’t chirp or tip my hat.
I think big Al respected me for that.
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