Remember the game? Early eighties.
It may be hard to believe it now,
but we just didnít notice back then
that all of the faces were pinkish or white,
and most of the line-up were men.
We were young, and completely unfazed
by the crooked smirks of Peter and Max,
the glaze in Alfred-the-Murdererís eyes,
the fact that Eric admired the SS,
that Maria and Bernard were spies.
In a strange way, they were our friends:
Robert, the saddest man in the world,
clerical Tom, bank manager Sam.
The truth is we loved them all.
I heard George joined Gamblers Anonymous,
and Claire resigned from the WI,
that Joe gave up on his PhD,
and pretty Anita wears glasses now,
has long white hair, like me.
Tread softly, theyíre resting
in wardrobes, on shelves;
you can still find them, wet afternoons,
half hoping someone will call round to play
in the echoing, empty rooms.
If you have any comments on this poem, Annie Fisher
would be pleased to hear from you.