may 11th

a poem about the inexplicable



last to leave the pub, much later than i realised
in disbelief i stop to rub my beer-eyes
not far off a white wedding
dress stumbles, lurches heading
my way unflattering on an flatterable figure
- take an average builder only two thirds bigger -
have i entered a surreal dream bubble
within the real world - im not seeing double
but i am seeing a skinhead with copious stubble
the kind you might see and be wary of trouble
in a white wedding dress and some white high heeled shoes
walk the straight forceful gait of the nothing to lose
with the occasional stumble of drunkenness
lurching from steetlights to puddles of darkness
then hes past me and leaving a view of the tatts
on his neck and the gape of his dress at the back
and leaving me wondering if i had dreamt it
or was it a message and if so who sent it
or was it a bet - if so what did he win
or was it his own way of just being him