Their school uniforms flattered

their conversation, overheard

as it was

in coffee shop in Waterloo,

over tea and a snack before

heading back to school, tucked

back in blouse, the giggle of fifteen

year youth as they congratulated

themselves on skiving off a lesson

for an hour, and the slurp

of how they shall get fat,

should they do this all year.

I rolled my eyes, I could not

sanction or approve of such time wasting,

the skive, one lesson, all for a buttered scone

or the dripping of ham roll

with untouched sentimental salad

on the side, the untouched boyfriend

compared to the slice of once

blushed tomato

and the raw cucumber in her eyes;

such a waste,

when we skived we found

ourselves in the record shop,

the Monday morning ritual,

miss the word of God in

exchange of thumbing through the

vinyl of our next saviour,

or our required devil in leather skirt

and pouting lips, the straddle

of the guitar across her breasts

always a keen image

in my fifteen year old brain.

Such a waste, to regret

a lesson squandered in the pursuit of gossip,

when the record was there to be had.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017