My mum knitted my long black jersey hanging to my shins.
If only I had black square glasses and black hair to match
combed forward into a Nero curl fringe at the front,
I would have been the bees knees, but
at least I could call everybody “Man!” and wear
sandals, bare feet if I was trying to impress a
young girly with pony tail and waspy belt.
Dragging out my battered copy of 'On the Road'
at the slightest excuse,
desperate to be a Dharma Bum, a Kerouac.
At the Arts School Ball I stomped the night away to the Road Runners
the basement got pretty steamy and I always hid
my one bottle of Coca Cola out of sight behind a pillar.
We met the next day at the Phil jam packed with
lunchtime revellers looking good
in glass and brass reflections,
herded together on a St Georges Hall tiled floor.
Two or three of us would pool our cash for a bottle of Hirondelle, and when they closed at two we’d stroll over to Gambier Terrace to see whose pad the party was at, “Man!”