At Stewart Dawson’s corner was where I saw you, seated all orange high-viz suiting, looking tired and holding a sandwich Like me, you look too old to still be working. I can see the weariness yet, I still have a spring in my step at least that’s what I tell myself Did I once kiss you at the cabaret? down the lane by the old post office Manners Street. Was it the Sheridan? Maybe you remember, maybe not. You are a stranger in a high-viz suit sitting on the pavement outside what was once a flash jewellery shop And who knows maybe we did once Dance together at the cabaret back in the day, when we Catholic girls were cock teasers full of false promise testing our allure against your erections Then moving on to the next dance partner with whom we might exchange chaste kisses several if you please flighty bright young things, even demure At times not knowing what we would do If the music stopped and there was just you or some other bloke or someone new who was prepared to… well, chance his arm So it’s unlikely, but not impossible we kissed one night at the cabaret You look tired there on the pavement as if waiting for a new song I’m waiting for my bus to come