Ten Gigs I Never Went To
Let us assume a curvature of space,
that time can be folded like paper.
If this were so I could laze and sip coffee
in the now, then walk the shortest route
between two points, over to myself
at eighteen, standing in the rain
outside the Manchester Apollo, half of
Northern England in the queue ahead,
waiting for the opening of the doors.
Those who know the science of this
gravitate by subterfuge to call boxes,
dialling themselves across the years.
The phone booths that ring and ring
when no-one’s there to answer:
that’s them, attempting to connect to us
before the splinter-moment that the girl
that got away walks by, or seconds
from the worst decision of our lives.
If I could, I’d tap me on the shoulder,
have a word; get out of here. Across
the city there’s a secret gig, a carefree act
about to change the world. Trust me,
some day you’ll wish that you had gone.
Andy Jackson (b.1965) is from Manchester, lives in Scotland. Poems have appeared in Magma, Gutter, Blackbox Manifold, Trespass & Poetry News. Collection The Assassination Museum (2010) and Split Screen (editor, 2012), an anthology inspired by film & TV, both by Red Squirrel Press. This is his website.