Frankie, Derek and Corinne
have had a few, are letting
their hair down. No more exams –
the rush has hit them.
Get this, says Corinne
doing the Twist, Frankie
laughs, he’s doing air guitar
I’m a heedbanger,
he shakes his hair
windmills his arm,
it bangs into a drink
wet and sticky on his shirt:
Ee sorry, he turns, a young man
is looking down at spilt beer,
then he looks up, their eyes meet
and Frankie’s suddenly afraid
Sorry, sorry. The other lad
frowns, then smiles
and shakes his head
disappears through the crowd.
Derek says:
Don’t worry, that’s Paul,
he’s ok.
Frank’s remembering
a cheekbone in the dark
a flame flickering in an eye.
He goes home with Paul’s
phone number.

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