Record Player
Maya Stott
I’m six, listening to dad’s record player
in the garage. It’s a Sunday afternoon
and there’s a fat satsuma sun in the garden.
A band is blowin’ Dixie, double-four time.
Bill Haley and His Comets
are in the kitchen.
Little feet glued on bigger feet.
Bluish tiles and high lemon ceilings.
There’s laughing,
So put your glad rags on and join me hon.’
Adam and the Ants are marching through
the front room. Striped cheeks and socks
too big charge across the laminate floor.
Cheering, Stand and deliver!
West end girls
on long Blackpool drives.
Illuminations by the sea, fingers tracing
lights on the windows, leaving melted
shapes behind.
Aretha’s backing girls on grey dressing up boxes,
scribbled lipstick smiles, taking turns on the
hairbrush microphone,
shouting: R-e-s-p-e-c-t!
Wake me up before you go go,
with cardboard saxophones,
and mum’s pink leg warmers.
Hungry like the wolf in the red Renault Clio,
parked up by the docs, eating French fries
and goofing on Elvis.
Lipstick on your collar, told a tale on you,
dad teasing, laughing into her ear,
tells her,
Oh, your hair is beautiful.
She looked atomic.
but
he was losing
his religion
as she sobbed
in the bathroom,
you were always on my mind.