They
sang in those days.
They sang
my mother sang
while cooking
supper, washing
dishes, Amapola
my pretty little
poppy
Moonlight
becomes you, it
goes with your hair.
My father sang
driving our car
over the Golden
Gate Bridge in
the fog
California here I
come on
Moonlight Bay
and sometimes
they sang while
they danced the
fox trot in the
living room
barefoot the rug
rolled back to the
wood floor, the
lights turned down
low, Artie Shaw
playing air
clarinet
behind their
backs dancing
dancing
in the dark.




This poem is one of the bus-stop poems specially commissioned by centrifugalforces to be read on Wap enabled devices. Visit our Wap site at www.centrifugalforces.co.uk