Not A Man Of Want

A few novelty sized chocolate bars
did him on Christmas morning
with a promise of something extra
once the shops opened their sales.

He routinely served up cups of tea,
then toasted egg sandwiches,
as wrapping paper covered carpet
to raise smiles, praise and thanks.

Presents got stacked up in piles
and the television was switched on
whilst he collected empty plates
to wash the first load of the day.

After a day of playing chauffeur,
tidying the sideboard down
and willingly being of service to all,
he sat with a beer to watch the game.

Nothing fitting stood out on shop shelves,
such was his straightforwardness,
so one size fits all tracksuit bottoms
were bought and well received.

Quietly and agreeably he drove
over to one visitor’s house,
for glasses they mistakenly packed
so she could read a little before bed.

Dad’s Crates

http://dadscrates.tumblr.com/

A few months back, my Dad gave me his old crates of 45” records.

Most mornings, I randomly choose one and pop it on for a listen before work.

There’s great stuff in there. It’s mainly all American soul music, but there’s a couple of random Rod Stewart and Phil Collins releases too. Those will be Mum’s.

A lot of the records are quite crackly now. Some of the worn sleeves have my parents’ initials on them as they’d get taken along to house parties.

On the week my Dad turns 60, I’ve begun this Tumblr to share the tunes I find and dance along to before starting my day.

Out in Greenwich.

With the excitement of a family abroad
lucky dipping from a dozen restaurants
they one by one sat into their places
sliding fingers down laminated choices
ahead of the waitresses pen and pad.

‘Do you have a fish only menu?’ asked
the mother of three identical daughters
keen to express the latest life choice fad
profiled in the forests of magazines
piled on staff and waiting room tables.

In the corner a mute son and brother
sat shredding fat with his teeth from
a pile of barbecued chicken wings
whilst the girls shot energetic glances
towards each more seasoned diner.

Those others, formally clinking glasses
above plates of salads and breads
held softly murmured conversations
contrasting with the vacuum cleaner noise
of straws hitting a cocktail’s end.

Couple by couple by foursome
the suited and booted paid and filed out
back home to movie hire, chilled wine,
drawn curtains and faint buzzing
kitchen appliances of white and shine.

Three drinks and crispy cod fajitas later
the outgoing, intimate relatives danced
along a bus journey back East,
the lad’s head resting against a window
out to roads of the black cabbed elite.