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,

I felt free to put them on

over our sausage and chips.

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copyright © 2017 Simon Williams.

First appeared on Visual Verse, 2017

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