The Reunion

I travelled two hundred miles to be here.
I’m early, find a chair in the corner
where the piano used to be.
I remember the night Annie played
a wild, marauding, off-key,
twenty-minute approximation of
For The Benefit Of Mister Kite.
I shrink into my heavy coat, shelter
behind my pint of warm beer.
I watch them arrive.
There are shrieks. Hugs.
One or two even shake hands.
Old times, old faces.
One face I still want to punch
fifty years on, even if he is
wearing a dog-collar now.
Nobody recognises me.
I keep my name tag in my pocket.
Some things are best kept in the dark.
If you repeat your name often enough
it loses all meaning. It’s about
what’s missing, what never was.
I hear someone say: We tried
to trace Annie but no luck.
I think of Annie’s kindness,
her ability to trust, how
she lay her head in my lap
as we sat for hours listening
to that double LP by The Doors,
Weird Scenes Inside The Goldmine,
ignoring poor stoned Paul,
who said over and again, Set Your
Controls For The Heart Of The Sun.
Your mistakes won’t forgive you.
You can’t climb up to the precipice
on the sheer cliff face where once
you slept without guilt or pain.
You can’t re-cross the love-line
each of us scrawled in the earth
when we were almost children.
I finish my beer, squeeze
between them, go.