STAYING UP LATE

Sitting in the dust of the road.

No cars see.

Of a 1950s summer holiday

Suburb.

Concrete Council houses fit for heroes. Joke.

We had lolly

Pop sticks to draw in

The dust. Usually we

Had scabs on our knees

And our clothes needed

Mending. We didn’t have

A football. We kicked stones.

We’d eaten us tea early

Usually white sliced bread

Toasted with marg & beans.

We always said “Last out

Again.” Then our mums

Would call us, about half

Seven. Last out again.

The people in this poem

Are now mostly dead. They

Are buried in England and

A few in Australia. Bless them all.