A Lift from the Poet
pure fantasy
I’ve fallen for him badly. I haven’t read his poetry yet, but I’m in. He’s a young Byron bantamweight in bomber jacket, stonewashed jeans and aviator shades. He’s the owner of a second hand Ford Cortina Ghia. I’m a gawky art student easily impressed. I think we may have met in the Iron Duke, I can’t remember. He tells me Ukraine is the real Rus and Moscovia the pretender. He’s a fan of the band ‘Soft Bastard Latin’ and did I know it took just one critique to kill off poor John Keats?
There is a glimpse of caramel interior as the door swings wide. I hesitate.
‘Get inside quick — they are tracking us!’ He squints up at the sky. Shahed ahoy. I shade my eyes. Looks like a large seagull to me. I suggest we could feed it chips to find out.
‘Get in — now!’
I obey. This might turn out to be dangerous. Who are they? I wonder. The Russians…the Libyans? He tugs at the choke. I soon find out it’s a private matter. To do with a green-eyed girl he ditched on the continent. Her father was an arms dealer.
‘I once stayed at their villa in Bad Kissingen. They put me in the old nursery. Just stared all night at the wallpaper. When I peeled back a torn piece, I saw planes underneath — B52s — there must have been hundreds of them.’
