All We Need is Mary

 

All We Need is Mary

 

 

The trains were broken again. I’d planned escape,

a few quiet hours to pick at the bites

mosquitos had left after taking flight.

But no. She told me, in her dull drawl about failure –

signals, Liskeard, redeployed crews, delays,

a platform full of abnegated people who secretly pray

to Mary on a donkey finding some stables.

‘Oh, they’re a sorry lot, but what can you do?’

I could think of a few things, but curbed my views,

cursed, huffed my way back down Station Road,

‘Bloody country, everything’s fucked, you know?’

in my head, but no doubt some of it forthed,

in Caesar-like wrath before daggers descended.

No doubt a dozen chores sat waiting, offended

by my getaway – there slept indolent Old Nick,

slowly, slowly filling – just another wafer-thin mint.

Yes, I was undone but resolved to walk fair Truro’s

cobbles once more, pay some visits, leaf through

her undoubted delights. They named a market

for lemon trees, you know? I cannot say why this is,

some executive must have sucked at his biro lid,

thought, ‘That’ll catch on.’ Then, once he was rid

of his annual masterstroke, turned on the taps,

sluiced spittle- streams from chewed plastic caps.

There’s a new stall selling vinyl and a small chap:

I approached cautiously, men do, it’s a ploy -

call it reserve, not blowing the gaff, being coy

unengaged - scoff inwardly, avoid swift contact

and circle each other as though neither is there,

but aware. Hackles? Why, yes. Entering the lair

of another wolf, for sure. Flicking through the discs,

he decides to risk it first, ‘Looking for something?’

Ah, that old one. ‘Cheers, but I enjoy the hunt,’

you reply. He backs off, smaller than you, a runt

but younger, maybe 10 years. Throw him a bone,

now scent lines are established: ‘The Stones?’

Shakes shaggy head. ‘Maybe ‘Pussycats’ by Nilsson,’

He grins at the credentials. ‘Yes, yes, John Lennon

produced it, didn’t he? Been after that myself.’

So you’re friends. And as it turns out, such stealth

pays dividends – not just a teacher, Head of English

if you please. ‘Me, too, crazy.’ Before relinquishing

your hands, he plays guitar, let’s form a band,

why not, coconut? ‘Nilsson, again?’ Definitely Harry.

He’s Paul, I’m Peter – now, all we need is Mary.