Passenger by David Spicer

A hanged woman bareback in Brooklyn,

CIA music in a stolen Thunderbird.

The North Star is not me on that stage

of the eighties. I long for 1913,

a gypsy in a diaphanous V-neck sweater,

a great anachronism, a fixer for royalty

lost in an age of speculation and sepia postcards.

Now, my head reels with barrels

of work produced by a fourth generation of

scandal. Indeed, I’m a hostage of psychos

dressing and undressing

on the silly bridge. Prominence

is not what I’m about, I’m a grown man, a casual

pilgrim from Canterbury, waiting

for credit, impressed by happy misanthropes.

My own expertise? Audiences are disgraced

officers who’ve learned nothing but to remember

the houses they occupy. And I’m not

an English psychic but a persistent romantic

wanting to drive his car in a straight line

only to wreck it on left turns.

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