You were part of a suit that Paul handed down to his brother.
High-buttoned, Italian style with velvet collar
circa Please Please Me.
The jacket fitted but you were too short in the leg
so Michael passed you on to me.
On Saturday night we went to the disco
and although we looked good on the dance floor
it didn’t seem right. Greater things you were meant for.
So I hung you in the wardrobe and awaited the call.
‘Hello mate, can I have me trousers back? It’s Paul.’
One day while clearing out the attic I came across
a suitcase filled with clothes I’d kept from the Sixties.
And there you were. But not as I’d left you.
Ignoring the floral shirts, flares and velvet jacket,
moths had been drawn to the flame of your DNA.
Holes like cigarette burns peppered the crotch
putting paid to any dreams you might have had
of making a comeback. No Cavern,
no Shea Stadium, no Carnegie Hall.
‘Hello mate, can I have me trousers back? It’s Paul.’
Beyond repair, I took you to the local charity shop.
But in the manageress I met my nemesis.
Unimpressed by my story and scornful of your provenance
She sneered me off the premises.
Not for you the shame of eBay, so mounted and framed
I loaned you to the Tate, where between Hockney and Blake
you hang, as Beatle fans in silent homage file past.
In the spotlight at last, enshrined upon a wall.
‘Hello mate, can I have me trousers back? It’s Paul.’