Ballad Of Drippy Girl And Morning Owl by Neil McCall
she really was a drippy girl
with wardrobes full of miniskirts
and drawers stuffed with stripy socks that pull above the knee
he wasn't much to write about
blinking like a morning owl
his shoulders stooped with bags of books on old philosophy
she always was afraid of crowds
loved sentimental poetry
of men who'd fight for valour with her lace upon their lance
he hadn't scored with girls at school
a reject from the soccer team
but now at university he felt he had a chance
she liked bow-windowed bookshops
and small suburban coffee bars
she'd doodle in her latte whilst she watched the world go by
he'd seen her on the second floor
those stripes ascending heavenward
if rejection came politely it would still be worth the try
she watched him in the coffee bar
his pockets full of bric-a-brac
a ghastly purple T-shirt fit to set off the alarm
he asked if he could share her space
with mocha and a carrot cake
she made to shake her head
but then
she judged him by the covers of the books beneath his arm
she took him to her bedsit
for some Coldplay and Kasabian
when he left at two she phoned her mum to say she'd met a boy
he took her out to Chatsworth House
they made love by a flower bed
he kept the grass-stained T-shirt as a trophy of his joy
now I'd thought to paint them wretched
smoking crack in abject penury
at a squat in Lower Broughton, in the throes of HIV
but I haven't got the heart to trash
their Barratt home in Warrington
with a baby and a toddler curled contented on their knee
and a pair of stripy socks strewn
on a pile of old philosophy
interleaved with soppy poetry
from someone just like me.
