Age, like that bus you so desperately needed to catch, just doesn’t hang about.
So much love poetry, so little time. And so few celebrating when the hands which hold are both wrinkled, and have age spots, and not tattoos.
This poem appeared in a 1991 collection titled “Spoils”. Despite the poem’s title, this is the song I was listening to when I started this blog.
Whilst the poem’s about your uncle and auntie, this blog is for you, Mom.
I hope you are well, and happy.
Think of a Beatles Tune
They asked him if he was married.
He said no, but he had a girlfriend.
So he went back to Tennessee
to persuade and collect her.
In the twenties and thirties
the young couple made the rounds
of Detroit money. Living in,
expenses were low, and they saved.
Days off, he’d take nieces and nephews
for rides in the bosses’ autos:
silver brackets for the flower vases,
best upholstery, and rumble seat.
No children of his own, sometimes
he could hardly polish the cars
what with his employers’ sons
hanging round, asking questions.
As for her, she got the castoff
evening gowns of the women
with wardrobes full of money,
and not a thing to wear.
At last enough was saved.
The farm was bought, the address
changed back to Dickson, Tennessee:
three streets, one traffic light.
By the time I knew them, the farm
was three acres, some hens, a cat.
She said they had the chairs that way
so they could hold hands, whilst watching TV.