This month's poem was chosen by David Cooke.

To find more about Greg and his work: http://www.writeoutloud.net/poets/gregfreeman

DANCE ON

My brother only dressed as a Ted
To avoid weekend dust-ups; he couldn’t
Stand rock and roll. At home, in his room,
He strolled forwards, then back,
Wearing a glazed, intellectual smile.

At night he belted home on his bike,
The last outlaw fleeing Henry Fonda,
Or maybe Henry Ford.
He’d run up to his room, slam the door shut,
And you’d hear that bass, and those train whistle chords.

Apache, Geronimo, Man of Mystery, Wonderful Land,
Straight to the top, till the Beatles turned up.
After that, things went bad. He teamed up
With a girl from the glassworks
Who always made clear she’d no time for the Shads.

The twang of the west, the horn-rimmed specs,
The Stratocaster’s echo across the plains,
Gone, gone; Hank B appeared in panto.
The marriage foundered, my brother rode miles
Over sleet-soaked moors, to hide his pain.

He gave in his notice, locked himself in his room,
Dug out the Dansette and his old 45s,
And waited for a sign; at dawn, on his bike,
He rode to the cutting, and lay on the tracks,
Expecting a train; but they had closed the line.