Crazy Frog

How unforgivable to be the teenager
who blares the Crazy Frog dance track
out of his open window on a sticky afternoon,
unaware that, further down the street,
a man is dying with his bloody mouth
flattened against the paving stones.

And how unimaginable to be lying there with,
one by one, your organs shutting down,
only to have the final thoughts of your
most intricate and sprawling life

- memories
of patting sandcastles; jumping in puddles;
being mauled by the school bully;
wet first kisses; awkward fumbles;
a warm and differently-shaped body
moulded against your own as you dance;
smiling for photographs; running for buses;
stooping to collect the post from the doormat;
being partial, perhaps, to salad cream but
loathing mayonnaise; holding the hand
of the woman you love as she strains
to deliver your first child (both of whom
are now at home, waiting for you); sobbing
at the funeral of your maybe-estranged father;
possibly insisting upon wearing socks
to bed but kicking them off each night
in your sleep -

interrupted
by the pulsing racket of the first ever
mobile phone ring-tone to be released as a single.