Thursday, 6 April 2017

poetrr 2017 / 046


The dryer sings to me while the water boils
boom-cha-cha. Boom-cha-cha,
a less-than-subtle counterpoint
to the increasing rumble of the kettle
and the rattle of unwashed dishes in the sink
as the 39 goes down Armstrong Road.
The whine of an electric motor
as the milkman pulls up. The jingle
of bottles. Two silver top, one blue
(he's a growing lad, tha knows)
and the deep, solemn tread
of the man who lives upstairs
an no playing the piano until midday.
Granddad puts the wireless on
in time for the shipping forecast.

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