People Change

The night I tore those leather pants
and the toilet door broke down
explained the black eye on the phot's
behind the bridegroom’s shoulder.
We’d viewed Exeter from the gutter.
Relationships broke up:
the Coypu’s girl ran off
with a stoker, all tattoos
and Andrew stories to
charm birds to their knees,
he said.

We were all a little ill and late
to the Methodist Nissen Hut
where the second feature was a
travellers’ wedding, so we sang
'Morning Has Broken' at breakneck
speed to make up for Boris Karloff
reading the Marriage Service.
You couldn’t read my scrawl
in the witness box
on the marriage lines,
you said.

The last time we spoke at all
you said you didn’t recognise
this life for you had changed
Guinness for Granache. Your wedding
story was something to forget
and your life rewritten now.
It’s hard to lose your oldest
friend and though bitter at your
words, as custom demands,
‘sure, let’s keep in touch’
I said.