I think the real names make the poems even better!
On Jun 7, 2017 1:05 AM, "Bill Wootton" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Thanks, Sheila, Patrick. These teen things, Patrick just pop into my head
> sometimes. Felicity, real first name, lives in Perth, WA now, I know
> through Facebook and is married with four grown boys. Should I change the
> names completely of people in memory poems do you think?
>
> Bill
>
> On Wed, 7 Jun 2017 at 5:49 PM, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
>
> > Great piece, Bill. Exceptionally fine. Sheila
> >
> > On Wed, Jun 7, 2017 at 12:30 AM, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]>
> > wrote:
> >
> > > Chuck school bag onto pile at the front of bus
> > > next to driver. Pay him, scrunch ticket in pocket,
> > > lurch on to bus, flop into seat or stand all the way till
> > > your stop, squeeze past, filch out bag and off you get.
> > >
> > > Only two green bags amongst the sea of black and red
> > > Xavierites, blue PLCs and a sprinkling of other denominations
> > > so retrieval always an easy matter. Except this time.
> > > When you see your reflection in Knorr's grocer shop window,
> > >
> > > the bag looks different. Tidier. Feels lighter. Surely that Pure
> > > Maths book weighed more. Swing bag down. Sure enough.
> > > You've grabbed Felicity's by mistake. The only other student
> > > from your school who rides this bus, both ways, most days.
> > >
> > > Felicity. Slightly skewiff smiling Felicity who you've known since
> > > primary school. Who used to be such a chatterbox. Whose words
> > > dried up with the transition to high school as she developed
> > > awareness of her placid beauty and rationed its implications.
> > >
> > > What now? Head after her to swap bags? She might already
> > > be home. You know where she lives. Queen Street. But you can't
> > > just rock up there unannounced. Her Mum might not be home,
> > > Mrs Shawhurst, who sometimes gives you a lift in her cool white Jag.
> > >
> > > At home, don't throw bag in the corner of your bedroom like normal.
> > > Place it on the bed. Do home things. Forget about it. Until after tea.
> > > Homework time. Can't do it. Stare at bag. Dare you? Unzip it? Just
> > > a bag. Like yours. But it's. Felicity's. Go on. Who'll know?
> > >
> > > Next day, Saturday, bite the bullet. You both have homework to do.
> > > Ride round on your Malvern Star, 3-speed Sturmey Archer gears.
> > > Kick/click down the stand, park on the nature strip out front.
> > > Heft bag, climb concrete front patio stairs. Breathe. Knock.
> > >
> > > Rehearse. Hi Mrs Shawhurst. I've brought round Felicity's bag ...
> > > Clunk. Door swings open to reveal not Mrs S but Felicity herself.
> > > In jeans, black t-shirt, barefoot, dark hair unponytailed, shimmering.
> > > Hi ... I ... Oh, yes, she says, ducking inside, re-emerging
> > >
> > > with your tatty schoolbag. Stiff-armed threshold exchange.
> > > Thanks, she says, as she shuts. Turn. Allow two seconds to take
> > > in the view from up there (birches, bitumen, what did you expect?)
> > > And roll on home, heart returning to workaday beat.
> > >
> > > It's Sunday before you open the bag. Autograph book on top
> > > tumbles out. Is that how you packed it? Flick pages. Falls open
> > > at your form two class signatures. What's this? Around the biro
> > > impress of six foot heart-throb Jeff Saxby, a pink lipstick smudge
> > >
> > > bw
> > >
> >
>
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