Travelling homewards on the five fifteen,
Mr Fairclough dares, perchance, to dream
Of Croydon terrace, shirtsleeves rolled,
And kicking mud from scufféd gardening shoes,
Then boiling milk and stirring potions,
Secret alchemies from ancient Aztec cocoa beans,
And mounting narrow floral-papered stairs
Scenting the scents of bath oils, oriental musks,
A glimpse in steamy mirror, clothes strewn on the bedroom floor
In the matrimonial double bed,
Hair damp and wisping round her head.
Pink nightie, carelessly askew,
Nylon lace in ripple after ripple,
Two orb-like breasts, a hint of rosebud nipple,
Magnificent, beckoning on,
The cocoa cup forgotten as he............
“West CROYDON, this is West CROYDON,
Change here for Waddon, Wallington, Carshalton Beeches and Sutton.”
He sighs, smiles, and, reaching for Evening Standard, briefcase, brolly,
Begins the nightly homeward trudge to Acacia Road,
Allotment, and his loving partner.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved