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Scum
15/04/89
Alan Buckley
I lay on the turf, under a steely sky.
No one picked my pockets. No one pissed
on me. The copper who gave me the kiss
of life wasn't beaten up. I died,
that's the truth; and though I'd never known
such closeness, our bodies like beans in a can,
when the air was squeezed from me I died alone.
That’s all changed. The words we’d sung as fans
became our bond. We’ve walked, the ninety-six,
through parish halls, hushed stadiums, and courts.
Now we walk back through time. Something sticks
in our throats. You’re at your desk, lost in thought,
scanning a page of lies you’ll say is true.
What’s the headline that can trumpet this?
Look up. We’re standing right in front of you;
what burns in us is fierce as any sun.
That word you want to use. It’s on your lips.
Say it to our faces, one by one.
Alan Buckley’s second poetry pamphlet ‘The Long Haul’ is forthcoming from HappenStance. He works in Oxford as a psychotherapist, and as a school writer-in-residence for the charity First Story.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – wveditor@gmail.com
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