Buffed nostalgia...
Holding back the wayward wheels,
Trying to steer the massaging machine
Towards the burnished buffers.
The hospital corridors, those runways
To different destinations, need to be
Spick and span; I raise my feet
And let the operation pass.
I wipe away my cranial condensation
And peer through the frosted glass.
And there, clean as a whistle, I see
The moving memories -
The polished pall of the school hall,
The homely odour of aunts and uncles,
The slippery creaks of the exam room,
The reassuring whiffs of the church aisle.
Wait, another vehicle approaches,
A silver bullet bound for the mortuary.
I wax lyrical and weep.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 687 times
Written on 2017-03-02 at 23:55
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The Waxer
Here comes the brylcreamed Ben Hur,Holding back the wayward wheels,
Trying to steer the massaging machine
Towards the burnished buffers.
The hospital corridors, those runways
To different destinations, need to be
Spick and span; I raise my feet
And let the operation pass.
I wipe away my cranial condensation
And peer through the frosted glass.
And there, clean as a whistle, I see
The moving memories -
The polished pall of the school hall,
The homely odour of aunts and uncles,
The slippery creaks of the exam room,
The reassuring whiffs of the church aisle.
Wait, another vehicle approaches,
A silver bullet bound for the mortuary.
I wax lyrical and weep.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 687 times
Written on 2017-03-02 at 23:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
