Last Boyfriend

February 19, 2013

How should I not be happy
for my first boyfriends?
rare as they were like slivers of beef,
like miner-celebrities, emerging from dreams,
for massaging my battered ego into self esteem;
complementing me on my
Revlon, apricot, sparkly, eye-shadow,
worn frequently in German, and CDT, and even
for the lower set of Maths;
hiding with me under the
large golfing umbrella,
in the rain, on the playing fields;
for the mix tape and the love letter,
and to Theo Boyce especially
for paying for the pizza
at the Pizza Hut, on Granby Street
which was £5.
For not noticing the rolled up wads of loo roll
padding out my optimistic wonder-bra.
For being flawed, or terrible, or irredeemable.
For providing context.
There will be tea, and travel cups, and the colour pink.
The internet. Sunny days.
Spontaneous bunches of flowers
will be bought home from car-parks.
How should I not be happy for my first boyfriends?
And for all of their girlfriends and boyfriends.
And for you, making something from nothing,
reading your paper, in the beer garden on the High Street;
Hungary; books; the colour purple;
dangly earrings; the night-time; summer;
the Fraglerock jigsaw I once won
on a phone in competition;
the environment; buddhism; rain.


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