On the train to Bangor from Crewe
Jo Shapcott and I, as tutors tend to do
gossip, and get to wonder
which of the passengers are headed
for Ty Newydd. That orange-haired
punk in tight leather? Unlikely.
More likely the old lady wearing purple
(see Jenny Joseph), daring people
to come close, if any do, they’re kissed.
Or, pissed in the corner, surrounded
by throttled cans of Guinness,
the man who shakes a mottled first
at a muse unseen, and screams:
‘Orange, orange, there must be
a rhyme for feckin’ orange!’