The Grease Megamix Closes a Party
For a while the DJ tries to be current, but then Tiger Feet
into Come On Eileen, then the YMCA and Pulp.
I love Pulp. At this point I am 72% Britpop and I know
that I am a product of this place. Queueing at the buffet,
for half cobs of egg mayonnaise; silver-skin onions,
cheese, pineapple; quiche stacked on white paper plates.
The kids and the women have taken their shoes off
and white socks skid on the chipped varnish floor,
danger that’s so much slower than I remember.
There’s something about the shape of this hall,
the heat never finds its way in. There’s been a chill
on every red wine ever served here and memories
gather in the high roof amongst the home-pumped
helium balloons. We know we’ll all be here again.
The paint has worn off the sign but we can read it.
I sat for years on the car-park wall and watched
for the future, but after the split lines of girls and guys
sang their drunken high notes, we go to our same homes -
safe on wide streets without traffic, all of those summer nights.
(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 1)