The night Margaret Thatcher died
I dreamt about Tony Blair again.
We were sitting on the steps of a mausoleum
eating lunch in the sunshine.
I shifted across to sit next to him. He said Hallo.
I said Hello, and tried to explain to him why he’d been
such an incredible failure. Didn’t he realise?
He said he’d always tried to do what he thought was right,
and that we shouldn’t be afraid to take sides.
He had pickle from his cheese and pickle sandwich
in the corners of his mouth, not entire cubes,
but quite a bit of the syrup. I sighed.
I said OK, we all get funny ideas
but that’s what other people are for,
to tell us when we’re being ridiculous.
What about his wife?
He looked down at his sandwich.
Didn’t he have friends?
He stopped chewing.
An aeroplane passed slowly in the sky
like it was also dreaming.
He looked at his watch. I said
if you’ve got to be somewhere, don’t mind me.
He didn’t seem to hear.
He got out his phone
and started fiddling about with it.
There were people taking photographs
of the mausoleum, and some passed us
on the steps on their way up.
Others, like us, were just sitting
on the steps, having a conversation
as though nothing were wrong.