SUNDAY MORNING/MY BOOMERANG WONT COME BACK:
On the radio in the shower they’re talking in voices with suits,
tongues that taste of paper. They’re reading the dailies, fingers
smelling of ink, dust blown off the arid streets of Capitol City.
Black Cab upholstery, tube train wind singed by subterranean
electricity, smells like a long way from here.
Now a full stop, a new voice, rich & deep, with a chocolate helmet.
Here comes the Archers riding jaunty kilted accordions,
parchment yellow with diamante thrills. The Archers mutates into
Danny Kay singing,
“The King is in the All Together”
& it’s the 60’s, the radio on in the kitchen playing
Family Favourites, a smell of boiled ham permeates the house.
We’re gathered around the Sunday table enjoying Bernard Cribbins,
Tommy Steel, Charlie Drake, Lonnie Donegan, Frank Ifield &
The Deadwood Stage is still coming over that hill.
The future is a blank canvas, none of this has happened &
the radio hasn’t yet been invented that will hang in a shower
that hasn’t been built.