Memory Games

The result reader’s sing-song incantation lists

seaside resorts and grimy, defeated factory towns.

I hear that Bournemouth are going up

and Wigan are - probably - going down.

I think back to days

when the last thing mentioned

at 5 pm on Saturdays

was the pools forecast,

which my dad claimed

was a game of skill

not chance.

Later the b-list chancer is smiling sincerely;

laughing as he reads the balls’ numbers out

I hear that Florida or the Costa Del Sol

are places that players can dream about.

I think of my dad

and the Rangers Pools,

tombola and raffles

in Sergeants’ Messes

over distant horizons,

where his memory

lives now.

Memory’s lottery has no winning ticket,

the X-es on the coupon are crossings out.

I hear the sound of distant drums,

my father - the past’s unceasing, deafening shout.