Valediction

I have lived through so many seventies
revivals that my mindset has become
one of a temporal refugee from
the twentieth century. Transcription
errors render each iteration more
inaccurate, so that I inhabit
a faded photocopy of the past.

'John,' she says. 'Can I call you John?' - 'Oh, please.
Don't stand on ceremony. You're welcome.
It is my name.' - 'Remember senior prom?'
- 'I recall reading the valediction,
then that scary moment on the dance floor
when the spotlight froze me like a rabbit;
I was convinced each breath would be my last.'

But why am I nostalgic for High School
Americana when I attended
a Comprehensive in Essex? Culture
cross contamination has supplanted
visions of the Ford Motor Company's
sprawl across Dagenham rather than Detroit
with retro ambitions as a writer.

'Oi, John,' she shouts. You're such a fucking tool.
You could've been someone, but just ended
up back here.' - 'Yeah, I'm more dove than vulture.
I had the opportunities, granted;
but prefer honest hard graft for pennies
to hollow fame.' - 'Spare me your hoity-toit
excuse: You're a wanker, not a fighter.'