"Mr. Dean"
What was it with you? Your metal legs.
Rumours of you with them off. A fighter
pilot communing in the changing rooms, alone
blinking through the gym-dust and linseed,
thinking no one had seen you taking a moment.
Such are the stories passed amongst boys
waiting to be beaten. Which we rarely were,
although we feared your ghost of Slad.
You summoned us with burrs of mouse barley
caught in trouser cuffs; the casual tan
of a gentleman, its Sherry had us
before sex, bemused by it and your awe of beauty.
We wanted Oboe to reveal her bra strap;
Helen to smile and chat awhile; to be picked
for the football team - but instead you gave us daffodils.
The cidery rim of rural history, your breath
a bergamot of calm words shaped us
in our seats, deeds left behind with Spitfires
or a Hurricane. Your refusal to approach that in
the sight of you walking - something modern,
some terrified control: diesel, the whirr of engine oil,
the flat death of phosphur in your resolution. It kept us
attentive for a memory, rattling the smeared glass
of a canopy, gulping the air. Your wisdom came
after cigarettes, gaudy uniforms of teenage songs,
a suicide or two, terrible losses at the local disco
after a couple of pints, the local hardman cracking up
in the bogs, narcissism – everyone was hooked.
But you were the first to look both up and down
and say, You’re incredible.
© 2009 Richard M.
Follow this link to comment
|
|
