Council House

It wasn’t our wandering eye but the ‘Right to Buy’
that said it was ours for a song, and why not
we had lived in it that long

so with Thatcher’s peg up to the gods we went into the loft
put in patio doors and laminate floors

ivy grew like a manifesto, the first in the row
it looked self-conscious as a dormer bungalow
almost nervous, to abandon its post-war purpose

but it turned a good profit in the grand scheme of things
sold to a nurse from the Philippines, and exchanging keys
we touched dreams

moved streets away, double glazed,
almost widowed, staring out at the same England
from a bay window

or looking inwardly at my university accent wall in the pill box of my student hall
when I was boxing clever

with a 2.1 in art history on the never-never
the real Billy Liar, who used to make toast
on the three-bar fire

lost, trying to measure the cost
like that time, I made small talk in the sauna
and assumed a persona.

Then giving up his ghost,
I taste the air decades old
and feel the lump in my throat

each time I vote.