Statistic

You might well say it was a mistake
to take it; the daddy of all
monster-bad calls,
le faux pas, le humdinger.
But before I shuffled off these mortal corduroys,
I flashed back to that Salford flat where
king high, Kong's view
the cityscape blushed, burst into mini-flames, dazzling:
I used a karate hand as a makeshift visor.

Traffic lights mutated into mute stickmen, red and green
studs horsing around, jay-galloping, piggy backs,
remote
no control.

Everything fell into place;
needle on to vinyl (times two),
four-four beats, bang in. Wannabe DJ swaying
the mixer as if slowdancing a thumb-sized woman.

I saw auras -
distorted -
war paint on faces

but most of all I felt
for the first time since bacardi school
I might just belong,
part of the junk furniture.

So when you say "mistake"
I beg to differ.
Besides, it's okay up here

yet the harp music grates
and the angels are all men.