It must’ve been twenty-five years since
I saw her last – longer since we spoke.
We’d cleared our plates of buffet-table
small talk when suddenly she offered,
‘Everyone on the estate thought
your mum and dad were so glamorous.’
Years reversed at her words, exposing
you both in our council house garden:
stripped for the sun, basted in tan oil;
magazines and massive sunglasses.
Smothering, sun-burned, coconut air.
Those vicious, foldaway sun loungers.
You were movie stars to our neighbours.
The arrogant couple. The ‘posh sods’.
Acting as though you believed your own
hype, till your bad press hounded us all.