Does She Still Think of Me?

Does she still think of me?

If she does, well that’s weird

But since we’re already here

Could I make a request?

That the man in her thoughts

Is a man who was sort of like me

But substantially less of a mess

Not the rampaging idiot, far from his best

Who would go on to cause her a world of distress

Often too drunk and always too proud

And obsessed with the sound

Of his voice and the parts of her body he wasn’t allowed

Let the manifestation of me in her mind

Be a better, more sensitive, much taller guy

A man who tried harder than I did to please her

A man with some patience, less easily riled

I know we’re talking some kind of selective amnesia

But could the man she considers

Cut a worthier figure

Than that shallow, impetuous, arrogant child

Let the flickering fragments of me in her head

Be devoid of the idiot things that I said

Stick some nostalgic music on a black and white montage

Of the handful of moments

That the wheel span to ‘romance’

And I managed emotions

That I didn’t treat cheaply, or see as a weakness

Or sacrifice to my genius for sabotage

If she still thinks of me let it be without pain

Let there be tucked away in the folds of her brain

A man who’s not sulking or cheating or worse

May she think of my face as it was when we first started

Smiling together, when we started to click

Of a time when I acted much less of a dick

Of a time, pretty brief

When she was all I could see

And I wondered and hoped

She was thinking of me

Unlikely

A poem for my friend and colleague Tony Baker, who passed away just before Christmas.

Tony Baker should be here by now

Something has interrupted his walk to work

He has most likely become enchanted

By an unusual conglomeration of clouds

Or a pleasing juxtaposition of traffic lights and trees

Or a particularly shiny pebble

I receive a text. He will be here at 10.17 precisely. 

I find this unlikely

Tony Baker is at the front of the stage

His arms a kaleidoscope, his face ecstatic wonder

The band behind him are playing a song but that’s just a sideshow

To this whirlwind at the front, in his suit, the Tasmanian devil

An impressionist painting, all swirls and shapes

I play guitar, standing in his mad sprawling shadow

I wonder if he’ll start singing in the right place

I find it unlikely

Tony Baker is interviewing me

Or at least he should be - he is not here yet

I am waiting in a room, in a suit, rehearsing my facts about the history of cinema

A door opens and he swings in, loping sideways through the doorframe

He looks surprised and delighted to see me, 

He’s either forgotten I was coming or he’s just surprised and delighted about everything

He interviews me. It goes thus:

“Can you start on Wednesday?”

I nod. 

He is thrilled. He leaves.

I sit for a second, full of unused thoughts about cinematography and the Hollywood studio system

He bursts back in for a second. He’s thought of another question.

“Can you teach?”

I nod. I can. 

“Bonus!”

The whirlwind departs. 

I wonder if he makes more sense once you know him

I find it unlikely

Tony Baker moves through the office like time lapse photography

A series of images caught in light, 

Staccato moments, too fast and strange to capture

Like a young boy in an older man’s frame, 

Startled and excited at the length of his gangly limbs

Or an old man revisiting his youth,

Enjoying the warmth and the joy and knowing that

The things around are there to be seen, and enjoyed, 

and looked at, and loved

Tony Baker should be here by now

Paint fades

Songs end,

Buildings are torn down

Cups of hot water get cold

Sometimes memories drift apart

Maybe these will

I find it unlikely