England

A town in the south. 
A March Saturday night.
A little bistro that serves pasta
dishes to Gladys and Brian.

She is all twin set nostalgia.
He is slacks and Argyle fantasies.
They talk of new austerity, 
muddling through, carrying on.
There is always the rugby, 
their pals at The Ship.
A pint in a tankard,
just a small sherry for control.

There’s the up-and-coming
production of Oklahoma,
at the Civic Theatre for Gladys.
She’s been a local operatic
for years, started out in the chorus,
now promoted to playing the lead.
That Christmas card did the trick.
Brian makes the props, 
pushes the scenery around,
helps the dancers a little too much.

Meanwhile,
at the all-night garage
on the edge of this town
Hardeep takes a punch in the ribs
for running out of bread and Rizla.
Kebab fuelled boys piss 
on the newspapers,
vomit on the forecourt.

Not far away
outside a lighted house, in a road
in this town she should never be in.
A Bacardi breezed girl with Winehouse hair
lifts her skirt for a line of coke,
the promise of love.

Inside that house, 
the net curtains twitch.
Gladys and Brian’s 
permanent itch, forever sore.

Look further, 
a framed portrait, 
almost pouting.

This is still hers. 
A little winced country.