Roderigo

 

Roderigo

 

Roderigo arrived without fanfare

at the start of some term, he was just there

from Portugal - tall, well-built, no hair.

At first glance, attached, it seemed,

by the hip to the Queen

of Business Studies – no mean feat,

a result, you could say,

feather in his scalp to share the throne,

and some conceded - a great hair day.

Still, he wasn’t well-endowed

or overburdened with teaching skills,

so, they parked him at the back

of classrooms, where what he lacked

he made up for in looks that killed.

After shattering eardrums, being shrill

in meetings and mouthing loud enough

words: love, respect, well-being and stuff,

they acquiesced, gave him a desk

in a room downstairs and mostly left

him to: ‘Assist This!’ And sometimes, he did,

in between studying his phone

and complaining that time the boss insisted

he move a bit, get up and shift

his desk to make room for the band

to set up instruments and rehearse.

It seemed he knew a verse

or two himself – The Cure, mostly -

but they weren’t keen, let him go

and the Queen said, ‘That was a cruel blow.’

Until, one day, he was there no more.

Later she confirmed she’d closed the door

on all that, no commitment, a coup,

and did you know what he could do?

Yes, perhaps. It took a month or so

of nobody searching high or low,

when someone scratched hair and said,

‘Know what? I can’t find that bloody Roderigo.’