Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Tactless school girls
at the back of the bus
in short pleated netball skirts,
ponytails dangling with beads and ribbons,
satchels slung over their slim shoulders,
tormenting the physically afflicted
and socially inept -
“Look there’s Quazi,” they say, “Quazi...”

He’s just got on,
a rucksack of his most treasured belongings,
emery boards, a toothless comb
and some nail clippers
which he acquired from his mother
while she slept in her invalid wheelchair -
he thinks he’s beautiful, meticulous,
in the Arsenal baseball cap he’s placed on his
head backwards, soggy blue tracksuit bottoms
and scuffed trainers -
he may well be a dribbling top lip mental case,
lacking in refinement, shunned by polite company,
with a hump and bells ringing in his ears,
but he thinks he’s beautiful, meticulous,
with enough money in his pockets for beer,
cigarettes and the return fare home -
he’s on familiar terms with all the trainee drivers,
telling them their routes,
one all the way from Bulgaria
who he calls “Uncle” after one of the Wombles.

“Go on Quasi, give us a kiss,” they say to him,
showering him with glitter and pouting
their glossy red lips.

He’s preoccupied by the Basingstoke Canal
restoration project he’s on,
promising to take part in a thirty-two mile
charity walk along the banks,
for prostate cancer -
whether he’s got the sponsors or legs -
exhausted already, he’s spent the best part of
his day painting the hulls of barges,
fishing shopping trolleys from the reeds,
clearing generally unruly vegetation,
old boots with spaghetti wriggling inside them
instead of toes, murdered bodies.

“Go on Quazi, give us a kiss...