Tich Miller wore glasses
with elastoplast-pink frames
and had one foot three sizes larger than the other.
When they picked teams for outdoor games
she and I were always the last two
left standing by the wire-mesh fence.
We avoided one another’s eyes,
stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace,
or affecting interest in the flight
of some fortunate bird, and pretended
not to hear the urgent conference:
‘Have Tubby!’ ‘No, no, have Tich!’
Usually they chose me, the lesser dud,
and she lolloped, unselected,
to the back of the other team.
At eleven we went to different schools.
In time I learned to get my own back,
sneering at hockey-players who couldn’t spell.
Tich died when she was twelve.