Last Night I Met John Adcock

 

Last night I met John Adcock

in the Burlington Arcade.

I was pleased to see him,

he hadn’t changed a bit

since the second-last time

I saw him.

 

I shook his hand,

and said ‘let’s talk outside.’

I don’t know why.

 

I woke up,

surprised to be in bed,

so far from London,

where I’ve never lived.

 

He taught me Latin,

to A Level; rare fish,

even then, he and I.

Two Darlo girls came for a year

or so, re-sitting

an ‘O’ level en-route

to the civil service

concrete block

on the edge of town.

They called him “The Haddock”

due to his unfortunate looks.

Such word play

from people

who hated Catullus.

 

Mostly it was him and me,

in a classroom built for a dozen

in a temporary building

that had stood for fifteen years

already.

 

The last time I saw John Adcock

was twenty years ago,

twenty years after

Catullus’s “H-ambushes”.

He was in the street, standing

dressed in the tell-tale combination

of a tweed jacket and “sweat-pants”

and velcro-fastened footwear.

I waved, he didn’t.

I saw the people bumping into him,

imagined their muttered apologies.

And still he stood,

a scarecrow

transported to Oz,

and mystified by being.

 

I walked on

too busy

to get involved.

 

Last night he was John Adcock again,

like the second last time I saw him.