Adrian Wright
Dressing
She doesn’t haunt my dreams, she haunts my halfcocked
mind, an hour before the buzzer
proves my dark suspicion day has come.
So says the Kid, putting on his string vest,
putting on his Y-fronts, putting on his socks.
To face a sky as grey as Brum.
Time was when I would get up early
to go to church or read Catullus,
erect beneath my dressing-gown, or creep
back home triumphant through deserted streets.
Time to forget. Stripeless Tiger joins the file
to cross the river and earn his keep.
The congregated traffic fidgets more
than moves; between the graveyard trees, snow
is spilled like light. Then silence seems to fall:
an ambulance, without a sideways glance,
glides past our acrid incense up the aisle,
cold and white, in answer to the call.
Page(s) 31
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