The Ironing Board

The Ironing Board

Well it would depend on what brand

of wash powder you use

wether I might like you or even speak

Some may seem clean ’n’ fresh

but leave a stale, steam-iron stink

On the bus, don’t raise your arm

to the handrail

or show that grubby cuff

or curled up collar - on that floral dress,

hook-straining and ziptorn

Shopping bags swing and race

and men shout fruit and juggle crocks

and the butcher’s mortuary echoes

to the white tile pounding

of cleaver on bone

He winks and puts in extra

cos her shade of lipstick stirs his loins

All butchers are of course lechers

or are housewives flirts?

The crowds shuffle slow

as shoppers dither indecisive

“Mind yer backs” parts the dead sea

of tweed and Pac-a-mac, pick and pick

doubleknit and slacks

But a basket-weave, Sunday-Best

hat n bag refuse to budge

“If she’s so rich why does she come here?”

“Probably same reason us mice

squeak about in department stores.

Nose-alls.”

“Feh. The bus fare would get

your sprouts n spuds for a week”

So we’d walk to market

and ziggerzag shop to shop

and drag ourselves

to the outskirt hillbottom Billy

hardware store

Bath outside

bike inside

mops, pegs n buckets

Tittle Tattle

nails by the pound

screws the right size

wood glue metal glue

fixing glue broken glue

glue for things to do

on rainy days

Cycle oil - inner tubes

sewing needles,

yarns of wool, rabbit hutch

and plenty of stuff that

in all fairness belonged in other shops

in another time

Chickens chucked and coddled

stinking up the pet shop

where whiskers twitched

and beady eyes ignored

squeaky pokey children

And guinea pigs compete

with finch, budgie and minor

and the parrot fouls the air

We go to the woodyard for free sawdust

cos hamster straw is 6d a bag

The baker’s iced biscuits

don’t compare with sweeties, even with

the horrid toffees gran likes

And no, the chemist won’t do

barley sticks aren’t on the Smarty spectrum

of the news-agents;

comics, flashy car mags

mags where you can’t see the lady’s eyes

Mars Bars and apple tarts

humbugs and easter eggs

and chocolate Santas

and balsa gliders

Nip the nose with the ballast

pop out the body slots

and slide the wings through

SMACK - it breaks on first impact

I’d had a cold

when snot tastes odder than someone else’s wellies

so back to the coal fire rug

“Show us your tongue”

"Ahhhhhwwww"

Hand on brow

look of sympathy

“No school tomorrow”

“YAY

Wait, tomorrow’s Sat’dy”