Twenty five years ago tomorrow

you saw me exhaustedly trying to drain

a pint in a bar in Media, travelling

for so long, a hundred litre

rucksack deposited in a rundown,

no television motel

but with a welcome sign that eased

my weary soul.

The Greyhound ticket I had used to

navigate the state was shoved,

stuffed, without care into one

of the overflowing side pockets,

jumbled up and crumpled,

pressed between mixed tapes

of memories of home, emotional baggage

that I cradled throughout my journey,

not sure as I looked apparently unenthusiastically

around the small but packed world bar.

You, a friend who would one day get told

off by a soldier carrying a gun

as I sat by your side as we visited the Pentagon,

we laughed afterwards, foolish man,

you came into my life and took me under your wing

for the few days I was in town

and I loved you across

these twenty five years tomorrow days

as your first question to me was

“Are you English?”

Caught out by the sudden question

from a smiling set of lips,

I asked how could you tell,

straight back answer, no hesitation,

“In a room full of people, you are so damned reserved.”

 

Remember twenty five years ago tomorrow,

I do, American salvation I found

in Media, a friend in which the Revolution

was born.

 

Dedicated to Carole Labrum.

Ian D. Hall 2017