poetrr 2017 / 046

Benwell

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.