Creosote clouds over the Dublin Mountains.
Red-bricked houses and four boys running rampant, singing, “armored cars and tanks and guns.”
Mam calls order.
Time for tea, poached eggs and bread-and-butter slices.
Shovel the coal into the scuttle in the rain, next door’s cat cries in the dark.
Scratches on the tar-papered garage roof.
The hall table is an old gramophone. Where the turntable went is a hole, surrounded by plush velvet. Small steel needles, nubbed and sharp, lay around the carcass of the HMV cabinet. The speaker, if they called it a speaker back in those days, is set behind hinged doors. Black metal, wide to narrow, a roadway for the Batmobile I whiz toward the curve it cannot get past. When I push my Dinky cars…