Watched the steeplechase races at Cheltenham
At the haywall a jockey fell off
His horse though continued to ride
And came first – what a great finish that was.
The name of the horse is Fiddlerontheroof
But the victory was awarded to Monkfish,
Who came second, with a jockey on the back.
At my comprehension, Fiddlerontheroof won.
He did the job greatly, with no commands required
He rode freely and gracefully, knowing how to make it
Showed splendidly what a horse ride must be like
Without the torment of whips and this stupid rush.
Door open,
hurtling loud and at full speed
towards my destination,
beneath me a blur
of mounded ballast
and withered grass,
the world coming into focus more
the further out I look -
graffitied fences, factories
still wearing the soot
of steam trains from decades
before, a mountain of stacked
wooden pallets, car wrecks
piled four high.
Late sixties, on my way
to work on the 7.10
from Alberton, all stops
to Cheltenham then express
to the City. The station names
flash by, Woodville, Kilkenny,
Croydon, Bowden all pass dreamlike
through a disconnected stare.
A vague residual left by the thoughts
back then still seem to slop
around my memory. I can feel
panic claw on the window
trying to get out.
I arrive fifty five years later,
on time, here, a world away
looking out on a soft fall
of summer rain. My journey
has gone by all too fast
on the 7.10 express train.
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag.
No boots and spurs to jingle
As in to town he rode,
Just patent leather sling backs
High heeled and open toed.
He always arrived early
Before the heat of the sun
Always so very careful
His mascara didn’t run.
And when he’d done the job,
Left the body on the ground,
He always left so quickly,
Never ever hung around.
The world’s last gunfighter;
He always earned his fee,
And always in the morning so
As not to disturb his Earl Grey tea.
Then he carefully slipped back
Into his other life;
A gas fitter in Cheltenham
With two kids and a wife,
While the police of the world,
Who really didn’t know
Hunted the femme fatale
Of his alter ego.
When the next summons came
In the want ads of the Times
He’d don his Dior dresses
And kill just one more time.
Well it helped to pay the mortgage
And kept food on the table
And a mans got to do
Just what he’s really able.
He was the world’s last gun fighter
And he always worked in drag
Carrying his six shooters
In a special velvet bag
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