Fifteen was life
heard with the hiss of a Bakelite radio;
like chips underfoot
on canteen Lino. Yet knowing,
somehow, that all this not-quite-fitting-in
would smash later life
like a Grand Slam pro on Astro.
the cactus always giving me the finger,
than you'd think.
Until you, (who adored
more than most
the bell on the baker’s door,
teasing the still air
of a village
in outer Shropshire)
tweaked the needle, and made life
Your smile, your urinal-cake-perfume
today touchingly near.