I found a plectrum at Liverpool Street station;
Bottom of the stairs rising up to Bishopsgate;
A bottomless blue like the November sky I was emerging into.
Just before the rain hit,
Those dirty great water balloon clouds’
bellies sagged down on my forehead.
It had three pink stripes on it.
The plectrum I mean.
Not the sky,
Not my forehead – well, strictly that’s not true,
Well, now I’m confused and furrowing,
A plotted pockmarked bald faced liar of a route
Back to that scratched up plectrum.
Plastic peeling from peeling plastic purple peeking through.
Poor me: I stooped and picked it up,
I could have sworn it was blue,
With those pink wrinkles from a hard old life
Plucking it all up
With a full bladder and
A Sagging Singalong Skin.
Pink and rosy, I can’t help but giggle
At the man I’m a wee bit ashamed to find funny, what?
Why? Well, he’s famed, constantly framed,
But I shan’t deny he. Although
I might angle my phone so this fella
In the seat next to me, in the future
Might not see, He. he.
Decry me then my upstanding bumpy bodies
Bang up for what’s that right there, write here,
but if the message is written, present and correct,
then don’t worry about who lost the plectrum,
only that I found it. So I let the phone
And my oh so famous comrade
Tickle me and wrinkle my giggles again.
When I woke up this morning
Desperate and unalone
The thought of the impending hirsute puppy
Shuddered me, until I showered me
which is when I found that little blue peeling plastic plectrum
on my bedside table.
It’s only just occurred to me I don’t play the guitar.