Philip

 

Philip

 

Sometimes, I am definitely seized by a compulsion,

and I long to discover Drayton Park,

tarry there cursing for three missed turns,

while others, luckier than me, roll the dice.

 

While loitering, I might’ve whipped out a device

like this fucking phone, idly Googled and scrolled.

You’ve all done this. Typed a name in from the past,

wondering what became of mister such and such.

 

Of course he wasn’t there, though, I had no such luck,

not a dickie bird, no one had ever heard of him,

absolute zero, 273: no tousled hair, no winning grin,

no Wiki Leaks, no footprint, no nothing, no bloody trace.

 

He’s like a ghost who's never had any sort of face,

and I mention this haunting to you in passing

because, only the other day he’s coming my way,

hobbling down fair Truro’s cobblestones.

 

I copped him straight away; thinks he is alone,

so, ‘Phil,’ I call, cross street. He gives me a blank stare.

A bit older, a few lines here and there, same mop of hair

withered at the temples now and in shocking white.

 

But, I remembered. Back when I was young, bright,

new to the teaching lark, a spark, green behind the ears

and up for it, I’d helped him run school cross-country:

he’d lent me some spikes and given me the B Team.

 

So I’m turning out mid-winter, more than keen

to get behind it. We’d have hot showers after training;

he’d lend me his expensive sweet green pine scent,

and we’d splash it all over for some great smell,

 

or other; it definitely wasn’t ‘Brut’, and I couldn’t tell

you what, now. He often leant back and confides,

‘I’m a millionaire, you know?’ ‘No?’ ‘It’s true,

I gave my business up, became a teacher and I could retire.’

 

Now, look, I wouldn’t tell you he was in any way a liar.

He had a great car for those days, Ford Granada,

it had a switch that limited his velocity,

chestnut dash, and once he offered to sell it to me,

 

but I couldn’t afford his price, in all honesty.

After a while, I got tired of training his second best,

so, I jacked it in, did something else instead.

Somehow, I don’t know how, he became a bad smell

 

in the dressing room, but no one had the guts to tell

him to his face that his grin was no longer a winning one.

It goes like that, sometimes. Too many free trips

to Switzerland skiing with his clique, too much flash

 

photography, sunglasses, apres-ski and they're talking trash,

staffroom whispers about parents stumping up the cash

and then came the fateful day he leaves a busload

of kids in some car park for an hour – and he's sacked,

 

but, like he said, he’s a millionaire, for all that.

Now, he stares at me blankly, as I call, ‘Hey, Phil,’

I always quite liked him a fair bit, you know?

But, I see his wife steering him, by the elbow.

 

‘He won’t know you, will you, Phil?’ And, he’s very slow.

She looks at me, taps her head with a finger,

puts the other to her lips, hisses, ‘Alzheimer’s.’

It’s a cold wind, the sort that would make water

 

come from a lesser man’s eye. Onwards they both potter

and soon pass by. Which is why, of course,

you catch me Googling for a trace, a clue, a footprint,

something to prove he’d existed, but no, not a hint.

 

Still, I got to tell you, I’ve always been a bit skint

really, never been hot on cliques or blagging sundowners,

didn’t really made much of myself, didn’t travel, didn’t ski,

that’s why if you Google, you’ll also find nothing much of me.