(I am quite sure of this)
Some Glaswegians still speak of the Silver Jubilee
and the Queen’s cavalcade sailing off
from George Square on a sea of Union Jacks.
Others recall that around the same time
the Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen
was black-listed by the BBC
but what I remember is
that one night I danced in sequined
hotpants, with a boy in polyester
flares (I am quite sure of this),
in time, on track, one hand in the air,
one step forward, one step back.
Time is easily tangled. It falls over its own feet.
That year peeled itself away perfectly
and they say smallpox was eradicated,
miles of fibre optics laid, personal computers
offered to the masses.
People said it had never been so good
but what I remember is
the popcorn mix at Regal Cinema,
salt over sweet, the triumph of good
over evil, light-sabres slashing the air
in synchronised time. In time, on track,
one step forward, one step back.
People said it had never been so bad,
Bengal hit by a cyclone, snow in Miami,
New York plunged into darkness
and out of the sky a fireball fell on Innisfree.
People said it was a sign. And that was the year
Steve Biko died.
Other people died in other years, but that year
Groucho Marx and Charlie Chaplin died.
Jacques Prévert and Robert Lowell died.
In Memphis, Elvis died. Still,
someone called Roy Sullivan was struck
by lightning for the seventh time
and survived
but because of the odd way time unfolds,
what I remember is the last few seconds,
the countdown under a glitterball
(I am quite sure of this),
light flashing in your eyes
and your hair as you moved
in time, on track, one hand in the air,
one step forward, one step back,
and ah ah ah ah
staying alive, staying alive.
Ah ah ah ah
staying alive.