with apologies to Elmore James

The Watergate story was unfolding

the summer I often found myself

covered in dust. Bowie’s Starman

had landed from another planet.

I was a recovering uni dropout

with no clue what to do next.

 

I don’t remember it raining much.

Still, you could only stand it

for an hour or two. We parked

our bins in an alley out of sight

of the foreman, or so we thought.

He knew his motley crew spent hours

 

in the café discussing Tricky Dicky

but were only temporary,

not worth making a row about.

I wanted to be a novelist,

my mate Keith a pop star.

Sometimes we’d go back to his place,

 

write songs. Made a demo

in a studio on Fulham Palace Road.

Discovered I couldn’t sing,

at any rate. A growing

political scandal,

new musical directions,

 

idols with mascara, heady days.

But nothing glam about

road sweeping. When it grew

colder I tired of bunking off,

took an office job.

Lost touch with Keith.