
I’m watching two men tinker with a car, the bonnet raised
On the street, their hands darkened with grease and at least
One forehead marked when a thought needed to be scratched.
One forehead marked when a thought needed to be scratched.
Well, says the man I know best, if it’s not that, it’s that.
Indicating something hidden, twisted within the shadows.
The second man nods, seeing no obvious alternative.
It’s either Labour or Conservative. Things are loosened,
Tightened. The engine is turned with a key, the motor
Chugs and stutters to another defeat.
Chugs and stutters to another defeat.
Dad’s not going to buy it.
Eventually, he’ll surrender to a garage, the experts
Who work under the railway arches before the road
To Manchester, facing the Navigation. A Free House.
To Manchester, facing the Navigation. A Free House.
They even have a pit for looking at the undersides.
Although there’s nothing wrong with her belly.
Although there’s nothing wrong with her belly.
When they do that, it’s an admission
A nurse calling in the doctor
The doctor calling in the surgeon
Telling the young woman to undress, slowly.
Telling the young woman to undress, slowly.
When all she’s got is a sore throat.
It used to happen all the time to Marilyn Monroe
Miss Artichoke, 1947
Steven Taylor
.
Really good poem. Thank you.
Comment by Angie Birtill on 17 August, 2024 at 6:38 pm