Waiting to Go On

I turned the pages slowly, listening for the car,

till my father was young again, a soldier,

or throwing back his head

on slicked-back Derby Days before the war.

I stared at all that fame and handsomeness

and thought they were the same.

Good looks were everything where I came from.

They made you laugh. They made you have a tan.

They made you speak with conviction.

"Such a nice young man!" my mother used to say.

"So good looking!" I didn't agree with her,

but I searched my face for signs of excellence,

turning up my collar in the long mirror on the stairs

and flourishing a dress sword at myself:

"Hugh Williams, even more handsome in Regency!"

The sound of wheels on the drive meant I had about

one minute to put everything back where I'd found it

and come downstairs as myself.

UNFINISHED POEM

When he falls asleep tonight, I'll sit still

with the stuffed crocodile, wondering what to do.

Have another shot from the bottle?

Or go upstairs and look for evidence of myself?

I've seen it all before-the toilet case

of film star cigarette cards, the bundles of old

theatre programmes, unfinished albums

from Eden Roc and The Garden of Allah.