Bodies in the machine

He must have put in his nights in this chair 
in front of the Bakelite wireless and smoked 
while nettles clustered in his front porch 
like eager visitors denied admission 
though a young ash had sprung up brazenly 
in his bedroom, waving out the window 
even while he snored, here, out for the count. ​

Do you want to see his bedroom? No? 
Well, the bed sags in the middle, 
no sheets smelling of the wash, no woman's touch, 
his cap, the pattern grimed, waits on the headboard. 
In a blotched photograph his parents 
worry. They wonder, perhaps, what a tree 
is doing in their strange boy's bedroom. 
  
Sit in the chair in front of the radio. 
Its fabric, white the day he bought it, 
looks brown as a fingernail from nicotine 
Surely it can't still work? Turn the knob. 
A little shock as music gushes out on long wave, 
Jazz from Marseilles to make young men and women 
dance until wine smelling mouths collide. 

This was where he went while the damp ate the walls 
nettles crowded impertinently in the porch 
and ogled warm breathings, close kisses, 
while he drank Powers whiskey and smoked, eyes closed, 
his closest company the cattle in Moore's field, 
until he slumped to sleep in Marseilles lulled 
by soft bodies embracing in the machine. 



Published in The Blue Guitar (Salmon Poetry, 2011) and Glimmer (Cinnamon Press, 2010) 
​