On the dispersal of water

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It’s 1:30 am.

He takes me away from the others unpacking,

opens the front door to the first night

in our first home and squirts WD-40

over both hinges, explains

WD is water dispersal,

NASA concocted this stuff

to keep fields of rockets

from turning orange, then burnt umber.

He heard this on his pocket radio

cycling along blustery North London roads

that cut between the reservoirs,

buffeted by daydreams of microwaves

and languorous AM waves,

walloped by the slipstreams of juggernauts

that don’t recognise bike lanes

on B roads where streetlights won’t work.

He holds up my key and lubricates it

with a quick squirt of the clear oil,

slips it still wet in the lock

to revitalise inner gubbins:

he knows all the proper names.

When I turn my back to come inside

this kind man takes the squeak from the gate.

Graham Cliffordpoempoetrycontemporaryartcreative writingreactionphilosophybritish poetry

◄ Gourds

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Graham Clifford

Wed 6th Jun 2012 10:05

Thanks Stella. that WD40 is wonder stuff.

<Deleted User> (6315)

Wed 6th Jun 2012 09:06

Really enjoyed the whole..lovely stuff and a corker of a last line..aye those inner gubbins need to lose their squeaks!


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Graham Clifford

Tue 5th Jun 2012 22:09

Thanks Ann. Hope you like the image, too. JB is kind of not related, but his expression is priceless.

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Ann Foxglove

Tue 5th Jun 2012 22:05

Lovely! Has a subtly about it which I like.

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