In his mum’s spare room, a paper bag leaking photos.
Your fingers ache to scrabble amongst its contents for
the small boy with the Just William schemes,
the glam rocker dating two girls simultaneously,
the buccaneering biker always outwitting the bill...
Instead your faux casual I’ve found some old pictures.
On the sofa, he hoards the photos in his lap,
examines each snap with jeweller’s glass scrutiny,
leaving you sweating until he metes them out.
Dead father and step-mother are given faces now,
but you find that his face is often missing
from holidays at Pontins and family knees ups,
away on another, pin in the map of the world,
Flashes of bouffant white dress and formal suit,
the room takes an in breath Do you want to see these?
The bravado of your I’d like to…
Signing the register, arm in arm outside the church,
with slicked back mullet and Zapata moustache,
features that drink has begun to lay waste,
Georgie Best lost boy look in the eyes,
You wouldn’t pick him out in a police line-up…
Your man, nearly losing limbs not to a daredevil
bike crash but arteries clogged like the M25,
exorcised the booze and fags,
won back the title of ‘big brother’
the clever mathematician
with solutions to his siblings problems,
who tends his hair like a lawn,
is quite the dandy in Crombie and brogues.
So you are marrying a regenerated Dr Who.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear from you.