Tonight’s ferry floats upon her ghost;
the Zavaroni chip-shop sign summons
up the seventies. Maybe the words were red
but they’re tired now and tilted slightly
Traces of chips and vinegar drag me
to flared trousered lunch time first year love,
radio belting out Mama he’s makin’ eyes at
me and I’m imagining Angie Maguire singing//
even though her mother was dead and she
was nearly an orphan except for her dad
who found me Bay City Roller drunk
in her garden and phoned the stomach pump.
And wine’s promises are a curse like fame
Lena, thinning away like the chip shop sign.