Peacock, 1941

Only played that Wurlitzer once,
most boxes had glass tops, selections
on cards, easy to change as
the hit parade renewed each week.

In Guernsey, after Go Karts,
at the café by the track,
pocket money went on
Beatles, Stones, early Cream.

Each track, A or B side, held up
like a lollypop, laid on the
centre cone. The arm clicked over,
bobbed over the warps.

My dad, who saw no value
in anything without an orchestra,
was generous, admitted
they had some melody.

As clear as yesterday,
knowing that satisfaction,
feeling free to bring them in
over our sausage and chips.