The Poetry Kit
Music On Computers
And the good old boys coming back
from the Old Inn, the village quiet, the
back road a whisper, the piling into
the cottage a squabble of the ending joke
and the new quiet. Computer on for the
retained music, Bob Dylan chosen as homage
to this guest, busy with wine corks, plastic
and real, dry cider bottles fizzing with a
fresh-bubble fizz and Joanne, waiting by
the sink with a smile and a confidence,
knowing the juice is in the fridge door,
the spirits on the floor of the bedroom,
by the uplighter. We pecked a kiss, another.
And the flavour was Just Like A Woman and
John and Jeremy were holding court in the hall
that formed the dining room and sometimes spread
the lounge, depending on warm or cold weather.
And there’s me, holding the smoke, grinning on the
terracotta throw of their cheap settee, pillows as
cushions and comfy. And Jane sinks in too. Terribly
friendly, adult, with her old dad my friend a next
drink away. So she kisses and I falter, she makes a
presence and I tell her diabetes affects in many ways.
Her hand presses and tells me I seem unaffected.
So we’re on the settee, I’ve joined a few conversations
and the agarbati is smelling wonderful. Joanne has pecked
me in the kitchen and holding court with Lizard ladies,
full of country and fishing and sex. And sex with gossip.
She puts my hand on her tits. I feel nothing, so show
her by finding and fighting my way through tight sewing
and design squashed. No room. What’s more is the singing
to ‘Hey’ Mr Tambourine Man, with a big call on the ‘hey’ bit.
The room is alive behind me and it’s Dylan calling the chorus.
Personally, I went for ‘tambourine.’ Emphasis was big with me.
I was definitely a ‘tambourine’ man.