I left the kitchen thinking that I must have got it wrong –
not him – not Queen – or else I’d dreamt it.
But on it went, Ava.
At least three times a week.
Finally I broke.
At 2 am I banged my fist against his door. Full of
sleepless rage.
He stood there in his pants, the concert playing on
his laptop screen behind him.
He just shrugged,
it’s the last concert my mum saw before she died.
He looked good.
Sad-hot.
We hooked-up while Freddie Mercury marched up
and down the stage. Rickie’s eyes were locked on him
the whole way through.
When Freddie shouted Ayyo!
the crowd called Ayyo back,
and Rickie shouted too,
Ayyo!
Eyes wet.
Quite strange, Ava, to be atop a man so thoroughly
elsewhere
but fun.
If I could rail a distant misty mountain, oh I would.
Immovable. Jagged. Icy.
Sounds sublime!
It was that night when I got back into
my own bed, I saw the call for artists and understood
that if I didn’t escape that house – I too, would soon
collapse into my own karaoke-style breakdown.
The mad thing is, Ava –
I ran into Rickie years later, still looking
good, still looking sad.
He was in Selfridges
Christmas shopping with his mum – alive and well – so
fuck knows what was actually going on there.
Anyway the Arts Trust deemed me needy, worthy
of their space and, giddy with my luggage, I arrived at
Boatswain’s Clench –
