Dylan Thomas at MacDonald’s
(from an idea by Chancery Stone)
The grease-spotted, salt-licked fries lie on the counter by the boy with the lack-lustre hair,
Coal-black, Bible-black cola in a Welsh-pool-puddle on the malachite, fake-Fablon-fabric of the counter,
Pooling without a care.
What forefathers have sired you, lad of the forgotten green hills,
Loins of the lands of my fathers, bakelite lids on brown-glazed carnival-glass bottles of pills.
Daffy the milkman whistles by, humming a song of the perfume valleys,
Remembering star-lit, chip-scented nights in Butlin’s chalets.
Why bouncing-boys, roving-remnants of the Rhonda, why sit you in the ox-blood, cold-plastic chairs, of this centre of the English ring?
Sling your hooks, llads, to Llewellyn’s realm,
To the ancient slate and rain-slacked stone of Burger King?
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved
