Stamped

 Stamped

 

There’s something in here about collecting stamps,

you took up hinges, tweezers, magnifying glass, lamps

and saucers of dishwater to pan through grit for gold.

Big Chief I Spy squats, smoking weed by his totem pole;

dreams about spies who never came in from the cold

perhaps saw how they both took it up, but, in the end,

neither could be bothered – let’s return to sender -

albums, lovingly given, a quick pick n mix Christmas gift

from Woolworths, dusted off in the bargain bin by the lift,

a spinster’s impulse buy because the fancy took her

amongst racks of cheap unsold singles like Sugar, Sugar

or Bridget the Midget going Chirpy Chirpy, Cheap Cheap.

As I passed you, yesterday, in the sunshine of the street,

did I fancy you flushed a whiter shade of pale, lover?

But that was just my cock talking, you never bothered

to stop, kept walking, despite our flash of recognition,

our album is remaindered in an unworried condition.

We’re but relics from years back - you hoped for better:

I never did send my stamped Penny Black by letter.