Nothing solid
is made out of wood
any more,
The heart of it
is sandwiched pulp,
Shavings, glue,
Pressed cardboard,
The planed edges
Curling like veneers
over long teeth,
horns...
Peeling. Yellow. Clipped.
For all that,
it seemed quite flawless,
Hunkered down,
On all Fours
in the 2nd hand shop.
A good price.
A steal.
"Just how do you intend
to get it home ?"
the woman asked,
my £10 note
Crisply disappearing.
I stared at the casters.
"We'll wheel it there,"
I said.
"Up around the corner."
"You can't do that.
The wheels will break."
Pencilled eyebrows
Darting, lightly drawn,
Scribbled
"On the pavement."
"Well..." I said.
A little unconvinced.
We upended it onto the
Trolley, finally.
My wife waved as she
Lit out ahead
with the baby stroller.
Boxing clever.
I was scarcely out the
door when it listed,
Crashed,
Wounded itself at
my feet.
"Watch out !"
the woman winced.
Two steps right
behind me.
I wrestled it upright,
Made it over the kerb,
before it slid off again.
Hal Roach's music box.
in and out a clinch.
I caught up with my
wife, my son,
Snatched it off the
trolley and onto the
Stretcher.
"It's no use," I grimaced.
"All advice is lethal."
We returned the trolley.
Trundled it home
Without further incident.
Up two flights of stairs
To convalesce by the sofa,
Cracked. Scarred.
Mean black toes intact,
but bruised. Jack Johnson
On coiled uppers.
Penultimately, quite
A'right.
▼ MILES DAVIS: RIGHT OFF from "A Tribute to Jack Johnson" LP
(Columbia) 1971 (US)
