Remember when you had to turn “Roaming” on your cell phone when you left your natural environment, vicinity, country? They’re pretty intuitive, universal now, right? I imagined a young rock luminary ducking rehab by fleeing to an island.

Roaming On

Stolen holiday. Far from rain flowers, unemployment,
asbestos, new town Basildon. Rangy teen virtuoso
activates Roaming on his mobile phone, eager
for a slice of country living, to court ravenous farmers’
daughters on Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark
and wonders, why do their cattle roam the earth?
Alfresco lobster lunches, no word for stress they say.
A tax haven. He scorns the salver of mini booze,

Sky Store catalogue, not in the market for pricey
cheap perfume, Gucci sunglasses. Not feeling
festive toward packets of party mix, he surveys
the movie, startled to hear a saw in its musical score.
Next to him, the butane-soaked Stratocaster he loves
to hump onstage. Bloomin’ airline won’t permit
his Marshal stack in the cabin though
despite his showmanship, dexterity.
Gobbling Valium, nicked from Mum, he drops off
to dream of hurtling through blue flame, ala Buddy Holly.

He survives to spy a monokini first day on the beach.
Determines she’s older, not half-bad,
but too far away for a proper tit-ogling.
No gigs, no email, no fighting Irish
uncles for two weeks. He finds himself
observing shags, gannets, black hares, blonde
hedgehogs and eating fruit of the sea, Patna rice,
Calabrese broccoli. Enough! He takes himself
off to London for a taste of true urbanity,
bona fide fish and chips.
Sound checks.
Spangle.
Signal.