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Stephen Bone poems
The sturdy steamer trunks
scabbed with peeling labels.
The rusted rictus
of an upturned grate.
An abacus subtracting beads
onto the floor.
A blind doll. A flock
of damaged shuttlecocks.
A gramophone, long retired.
Toscanini At The Met, still in place.
A Baby Belling.
A yellow beach-ball,
still limply holding
his father’s breath.
Sleepless nights I slip
from the huntsman’s side –
a silent dependable type –
then walk the forest path
with my familiar ache
burn
for those citrine eyes
that loll of tongue dashing fangs
swear the breeze
still brings to me the tang
of his meaty pant
echo of his moonlit howl
as it tugs
at my red cape
mothed to a flimsy caul
Still available. A throwback
to cigarette cards
and iodine. Victory Vs.
Spit and polish.
The soap, my aunt, who wasn’t
scrubbed herself with,
as if she were a stain.
Her water hard and scalding.
Used to ease her father’s
signet ring from her finger
on hot airtight days
and on me, the time I slipped up.
I have never forgotten
the froth, the taste
or the way she set down
a tablet in the lodgers’ bathroom,
beside the copper taps,
like an unwritten house rule.
An orange threat.
Long gone the denture pink
luncheon meat pressed
between sliced white.
The cheap red.
The moth-eaten Black Watch
rough beneath our backs; a tub
of soft scoop – forgotten about –
melting in the humming heat.
These days
you unfold a formality of table
and chairs, favour starched napkins,
cutlery.
Your hamper empties
baguettes, poached salmon,
Spanish hams. From the icebox
a too cold Sauvignon.