We cram into the neighbours’ box room
for the Christmas Special:
me and Trace, Kirsten, Alyson;
downstairs the adults fugging up the lounge.
They pass before us like game show prizes –
Gary Numan, Bowie, Duran Duran,
Blondie, Siouxsie Sioux –
all pouts and fringes, sequins, skintight leather
while Legs & Co. sync smiles and kicks
before a podium of cheering punters –
girls like us but shinier somehow –
how we envy them, picked from the dance floor
while we scoff KP crisps, mince pies,
Wagon Wheels and Opal Fruits,
passing round a Jackie annual, Rubik’s Cube,
Alyson wafting to and from the phone.
I can no longer do a Rubik’s Cube,
Bowie’s dead, Alyson too, the rest of us
a little scratched, still spinning,
still waiting for the Top Ten countdown,
still dreaming of being plucked from obscurity.