Bringing the drawings home.

　
Grandfather started it all by bashing out pen nibs on a fly press,
in the back bedroom,
where Loti Pot lost half a finger;
then after a good war,
guns cost money,
you moved to a mansion,
that your lover used up.
 
We moved to Sutton from Small Heath,
the first time I saw the May,
taking our small socialism with us,
those parties for actors and communists and Jews,
you worked hard manufacturing door panels for Zephyr cars,
crumbs off the rich man’s table.
 
We visited grandma in Bordesley Green every Sunday,
she cleaned the front step;
on Monday it was washing day,
fish on a Friday,
even though we weren’t catholic
and the outside toilet,
was covered in bright yellow paint,
with yesterdays evening Mail,
torn and threaded on a piece of string.
 
The front parlour was always a bit damp,
they lived in the back room,
though the vicar never called;
antimacassars kept the brylcreem off the best chairs.
You bought mother the third mini from the Longbridge,
it sat in the driveway like freedom,
the twin tub replaced the dolly peg and mangle,
starch and blue bags.
 
I went from riches to rags,
became a poet,
watching as the welfare you fought so hard for is dismantled
and Das Kapital is worth reading again.

Like an American city, Birmingham,
metal bashers,
that have tinned fruit and carnation milk,
for Saturday evening tea.

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