Discharge

A freshly made freak of biology, it
was time to leave. In jeans meant
for someone bigger, I whistle-stopped,
floated round the wards I'd haunted.
A cursory: "Thanks. I know it's
your job, but you're still appreciated."

It was in the lift, me a skeletal Jesus
to dad, God in dungers, cheap trainers,
we noticed the advert for an old
folk's home, called "Avarest". The
first giggles were stifled emissions of
colonic gas. But soon we were

right angles, roaring away different
outlooks, a half-remembered fist fight.
Back home (cheekbones damp with
laughter) the FA cup on loan! Hands
on hips, it graced the coffee table. A
jealous hug of its shape. A smile like

lock-jaw. It felt like a Kodak moment.
But they never showed me the photo.