I grew up with an internal radio station
Better than our parents’ clock radio
My ears played on through
A sea of uncomfortable silences
Blasting songs that chimed with my psyche
Until I was old enough to find my voice
These days I don’t have to hide
My mental playlist
Hoard records like a miserly dragon
Perched atop a sea of
Battered cardboard sleeves
And faded pictures
I just talk to a box and it starts
Opening chords strummed on a guitar
Take me back to a time before
I knew more of the world
Than my own small patch
Middle-aged thoughts
Humming along
Drifting homeward
On a smooth, Atlantic sound
To a time before we were grown
Feelings surface like an old bruise
Half-healed, then suddenly pressed
I can taste the air
Dusty summer evenings
Hollyhocks and forget-me-nots
Claiming the cracks in the pavement
Outside our front gate
Flip the record over for the sound
Sunshine and staying up late
Neighbours over the back fence
Drinking and smoking in their yard
Trainers airing on the roof
Outside the bedroom window
Across the way
Someone picking at a battered guitar
Me and my imagination
Staring at lengthening shadows
On the cracked barley-white ceiling
As the switch to night lit up
Our rainbow. We lay back watching
The tower block on the corner
Each window its own colour
Turquoise, pink, yellow, mauve
I was never alone in the dark
Surrounded by signs of the high life
We never saw up close
Just a little stifled
Bedtime would find me
Trying to splay my coltish limbs
In their hand-me-down, too short
Darned pajamas
Neckline off-centre
Their cartoon cat’s face
Twisting with each rotation
Feet up on the wall to keep cool
Through the night
Waiting for sleep to overtake us
In our overheated box bedroom
Postcards and photos stuck up
To disguise the chips in our plaster walls
Cover the lack of care
For our decaying ruin of a house
That was home – patched but not mended
We took it in stride
Knowing nothing else
The five foot three bunkbeds
I shared with my sister
Squabbling for a turn
To enjoy the view
From the top bunk
Thin tartan mattress over
Groaning metal springs
Until I left home at eighteen
In search of a new set
A brand new sound
And someone to play with
Katherine Shirley 