Rick Astley

you look like
Rick Astley
she said
as she stood with her mates
vodka in hand
on the station platform
waiting for trains

newly coiffured
and cursing Thatcher’s Britain
I was somewhat
non-plussed
hoped it was
drink
that was talking

he promised
to bring me
into the twentieth century
armed as he was
with hair clippers
scissors
and a nice line in mousse

for a proud and out
introverted
indie kid
this was humiliation
travelling as I was
alone
to the fair

today
in the twilight
of late grey
middle age
I smile at this
snapshot
of youthful struggles

yet whilst I might
Roll with Rick now
I will never stop
dreaming
of Ruffians from
Rusholme
and socialist bliss

ashyvicar