Postcard
By Jo C
Published 22 September 2017
It arrives in the post one sticky December afternoon
And for a brief, ecstatic moment I am convinced:
David Bowie has sent me a postcard.
The card creased now and soft at the edges
Changesone Bowie forever frozen
With angular cheekbones and Titian public school hair
He looks pensively into the middle distance
One elegant finger resting on his lips
As enigmatic as the Theban sphinx
“How are you? He asks
Prosaic, I know, but warm: homely
“I still look like a ghoul” he offers
In case, perchance, I have imagined him
louche in speedos on some greasy beach in Mallorca
(my mother thinks he looks ill)
“Your mother is a charming woman” he pronounces,
“Not unlike Aretha Franklin to look at”
It is a private joke now, between mum and me
But I’ll always remember that electric minute
When Bowie reached out