Celtic Boy

My grandad used to say I’d had more men than he’d had hot dinners… ;^)

John McEnroe look-a-like

in my friend’s History tutorial.

She fancied you. You fancied

me – your pal told me –

it was second year at uni.

We had a house party.

We spoke.

You invited me to Hall & Oates –

a Daryl fan!

I grimaced at their hits.

Could I go to that?

I did, an aficionada since.

I couldn’t resist your freckles,

green-Ermintrude eyes, height.

And your patter wasn’t shite.

I guffawed the whole night long.

The bedroom walls sung

with shared joy and Bhoy

you were constant, faithful,

steadfast, catholic.

You’d worn a red shirt at the concert

to diminish your beetroot face.

You were shy.

Your sister led me to mental health,

your family embraced me in their home.

I’d dry the big pots with your dad

I’d drink Drambuie with your mum,

your nephew landed a ball in my moussaka.

You’re the only man I’ve seen cry

and not because of the score!

It was the last day at uni –

you dumped me!

A fortnight later, I was your partner

at your sister’s wedding.

You wanted me back after

the Best Man asked me to dance

a lot. We were together  

for five-more-years.

Tears For Fears ruled the world.

But I knew someone like you

belonged with someone else.

You were a traditional man.

I have always been unconventional.