Sarah-Jane

Sarah-Jane

 

Roger had Lily

and an understanding father

when he couldn’t sleep at night.

You had Sarah-Jane

and monsters – not all fully realized

by a BBC budget,

although, for all that,

concepts that convinced and stayed,

transformed bubblewrap and made

concrete cobwebs from dusk.

 

Later, came Leela,

but she was not right modest

or chaste, did not leave the aftertaste

of our captain’s captain

and she wasn’t - no dark passages

or chased through deep sleeps

of the interior -

and, therefore, inferior.

 

You treasured those books

when they came,

mail-ordered, paid for

by carefully harvested sums

of comfort’s crumbs,

before fiends stole and took

them, ripped up pages,

burnt blanket into scraps of cover

with fiery tongues of scorn -

the strongest gales before the storm.

 

Well, she quite liked her,

but she couldn’t stand him

so you stand there naked, grim,

saying I am David.

No, you’re not,

she might reply

and you feel you’ll cry

while she’s at blue doors, wavering,

waving, mouthing – hey, don’t forget me:

before she’s gone – history.