Issue Three

Spring 2012


Probably Not the Best Summer Job in the World


Leave the sun to blaze on foyer doors,
scuff up stone steps, change into pink shirt,
kipper tie, purple suit with wide lapels,

climb behind a Perspex box, sell tickets
with grubby fingers,  hand over Maltesers,
pop-corn, hot-dogs, ices,

get caught mid-impression by the manager,
an imitation of his voice hung like a jammed
frame in his stare,

mooch and ghost with dilated eyes
through drifts of smoke, blasts of Pearl and Dean, 
muffled sobs, roller-coaster screams,

find lovers joined at the lips after the credits
have rolled, glide a banister to catch Michelle Pfeiffer
before she turns into a hawk,

exit via the fire escape to meet you for a quick half
between shows; apart from this last, no, I don’t wish
I was back there, since you ask.




Roy Marshall

silver fractal