Andrew Mayne
Emptying Leavers' Lockers
Paul Swallow - on the name-tag inside the suit.
Who had always been keen on the Glee Club,
run jointly with the local girls’ high school.
Tuned in, too, to trophy hunting? A cross-dresser?
Would he want all his gear back? But not the socks.
Suppose I had felt furtive—about to apply
the ‘master key’ to unclaimed lockers left shut up.
Suddenly half-fearing something vile or grim;
no prospect at all I’d be offered some treat—
a detective or voyeuristic flutter.
Mostly a sweeping out of choc-bar wrappers—
Sneakers, Kit Kat. (Two cages completely empty.)
Until this last one—which, when opened, spilled out
a ring-file of geography field-trip notes,
a mouldy sausage-roll and some crotchless tights.
Then, going down the strata, I excavated
a garrotted bow-tie, a pink brassiere,
and two noisome socks that I dared not touch—
but impounded each grey snake into the bin,
scooped up on my completed register.
Finally, I found an essay from last year
on Pope’s Belinda and the mock-heroic mode—
surprised by how much sense my comments made—
slid underneath a plastic Sainsbury’s bag:
within—an evening-suit; a jar of Brylcreem.
Who had always been keen on the Glee Club,
run jointly with the local girls’ high school.
Tuned in, too, to trophy hunting? A cross-dresser?
Would he want all his gear back? But not the socks.
Suppose I had felt furtive—about to apply
the ‘master key’ to unclaimed lockers left shut up.
Suddenly half-fearing something vile or grim;
no prospect at all I’d be offered some treat—
a detective or voyeuristic flutter.
Mostly a sweeping out of choc-bar wrappers—
Sneakers, Kit Kat. (Two cages completely empty.)
Until this last one—which, when opened, spilled out
a ring-file of geography field-trip notes,
a mouldy sausage-roll and some crotchless tights.
Then, going down the strata, I excavated
a garrotted bow-tie, a pink brassiere,
and two noisome socks that I dared not touch—
but impounded each grey snake into the bin,
scooped up on my completed register.
Finally, I found an essay from last year
on Pope’s Belinda and the mock-heroic mode—
surprised by how much sense my comments made—
slid underneath a plastic Sainsbury’s bag:
within—an evening-suit; a jar of Brylcreem.
Page(s) 17
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