Runcible Spoon

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The Terrace


The Thomases at Number 2

had those four kids, youth’s depth charge,

and Jerry working bursts and shifts

to get the readies

for the big TV, the gear, the copiousness.


At Number 4, they cultivated Dad.

Adulated. Cringed. Dad’s tea, Dad’s dinner

and at night, as the television sang celebrity,

Dad’s views

on blacks and blondes and bastards.


Sid and Cherie, childless, Number 6,

their rituals ranged on dressers,

packed in lavender.


Grandma, at Number 8, alone,

but visited by her son and Charlotte, six.

A den, with brambled garden,

cupboards stuffed

with coloured shapes and prospects.


When the coach crashed outside,

they all (except for Dad: bad back)

went out to help

with blankets, wiping cuts, hot tea.