Used To Poem by Jerry Pike

The ASBO park brims.
I grease through a ten deep,
thinly veneered bar
for cheap gassy beer, and people.
Reaching my spot, I ask
Have you got a pen?
We used to have, she hunted,
and alongside pint-glass Tetley’s,
a leased biro warms.
They used to ski-jump here,
floating ramp, wet sprung,
on the gentle wakes
of a Victorian reservoir.
Screwed down by skirmishing trees,
loosely tacking its hem in place.
Paths used to rustle with short trousers,
running to paddle boats,
Brylcreem boys,
half-mast respectful grey socks
above their scuffed shoes,
toffee apples crunching,
ice cream wafer blocks,
from salesman with turn-ups and braces.

No one was sitting near me,
as I wished sketches away,
drawn up from imaginary hopes
I’d pencilled in lightly as a child.
The longer I sat, the less I liked.
Scarce a saving grace,
but for lapping water and free skies.

Anarchy greeted nature
with the flex of
its unhealthy muscles,
its coarse voice,
its sightless love.
And wandering back,
I flickered through I used to’s,
but realise, I didn’t.