155. in the land of string-backed gloves.

I can’t whistle –
I never could,
which isn’t hugely important
to a young gun like me
in his fifties,
but what am I
going to do
in my seventies, say,
with me & the missus
strolling round Wal-Mart,
her in her finely crafted nylon threads
me in my purposeful strides
following on behind
like some forgotten appendage
hands behind my back
muttering away,
if I can’t bloody whistle ?
I’m fucked.
I mean,
I am going to look like a proper tit
if I can’t fucking whistle.