As Thursdays go
I’ve had worse. One time, fleeing
Godley I was caught in pelting rain
With no umbrella or buses running
And had to walk, hunched
And cursing all the way home
To Arthur Street, opposite
The Providence. On a separate
Thursday, my wages
Had been issued without including
The overtime and I had to explain
Myself to the wages clerk
Who sighed and said,
It would have to wait until Monday
I tried, unsuccessfully
To make Mondays mean something
A new start or a fresh page
But by lunchtime, invariably
I was aware of being
Captive to the ancient longing
For something different
A radical government
Wealth redistribution
Having said all this
I used to meet you in The Jester
Coffee bar on a Monday
And we’d have sex on Thursdays
When your parents were out at Bingo
In the old Astoria, adjacent
To Hyde bus station. Hence
The soaking
Walking home from Godley
.
Steven Taylor